w.':poem: 



A BOOK OF POEMS 

BY 
WILBUR D. NESBIT 



With Five Illustrations by 
ELLSWORTH YOUNG 



SUBSCRIPTION EDITION 



Evanston, Illinois 
THE BOWMAN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

Publishers 



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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Twa ConiM Received 
SE^ 26 1906 
|A Cepyritfnt Entry 

-CfASS Ajf XXc, Nf . 



Copyright, 1906, by Wilbur D. Nesbit 



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En Strliarli mh Sob^rt 



CONTENTS 

/When Little Children Sing 11 

^The Mystery 13 

^The Wonder Place 16 

^ The Pariah 18 

Sunday Clo'es 20 

y'DowN Street^' 22 

,Why Pa Doesn't Read 24 

^ Poor Old Mister Green 26 

y Samantha Ann 28 

J;Pore Folks'' 30 

-^Paw's Inconsistency 32 

^ When Willie Johnson Swore 34 

^^^Three in the Afternoon 36 

^ The Wind in the Trees 38 

^,The Wisdom of the Boy 40 

^The Beautiful Women 42 

.^ April- ^^ 

/Mr. Unknown 46 

^ He Never Told His Troubles 48 

.^ Sundown Road 50 

^, The Harvester 52 

,^ Midsummer Daydream 54 

Child Visions 56 

y The Little Bad Boy 58 

7 



y 



contents 

^,^The Little Things 60 

Snow Pictures 62 

His Shadder 64 

/The Average Man 66 

^.'The Tramp 68 

. The Evening Lamp 70 

y Together 72 '^ 

^-Lincoln 74 

^^ The Gem 76 

^ The Angel 78 

^How Do You Wear It? 80 

y The Devil's Tattoo 82 

With No Moral 84 

.RUBAIYAT OF 0. LaZYMAN 86 

"^ Betwixt and Between 88 

*^ His Raving 90 

^ Daniel Webster Franklin Green 93 

^ Jake and Joe 95 

^Fashion Notes 97 

And So 4th 99 

^^LiNES TO A Bald Spot 101 

^ Running No Risk 103 

An Uncle Bill Story 105 

^. The Curing of William Hicks 107 

^ The Educated Bee 109 

^ Mister Whammy-cum-Whim 112 

^ Pie 114 

^^To A Cigar 116 

Lines to the Seventeen Year Locust 118 

An Artificial Tragedy 120 

/ 



CONTENTS 

y.OLD Mis' Rain 122 

y Soap Bilin' 124 

' >'Old Doc'' 126 

y Howdy, Mr. Winter % 128 

^ The Coaxin' River 130 

- After a While 132 

„y- The Home-Coming 133 

^''Mushmelons" 135 

^His Enemies 137 

Isaiah Perkins' Creed 139 

^The Dedication 141 

The Mississippi 144 

^ Who Hath a Book 146 

^ My Fat Friend's Smile 148 > 

X Good Fellowship 149 "^ 

xThe Big Brass Band 150 

Green Apples and Salt 152 

/'The Old Motto 154 

^, Wanderlust and Heimweh 156 

Old Glory's Day 158 

y The Army of the Shx\.dows 160 

• The Mighty Nations 162 

xThe Ne'er Do Well 164 

^-"Rest at Ease" 166 

^/'That Shall Abide" 168 

y<THE Conquerors 170 

-The Curse of Jotham 172 

^ "Look at the Stars" 174 

When a Good Man Dies 176 

•^HE Good Word 178 

9 



CONTENTS 



-^The Red Sea 180 

^* A Hymn of Thanksgiving 182 

v'Truth 184 

/The Slain 186 

xThe Balance 188 

Sorrow 190 

^ As A Fool Dieth 192 

^'Chums'' 194 

^ A Good Night 196 

Afterward 197 



10 



W!HEN LITTLE CHILDREN SING 

Ho, children sing as bees or birds, 
With little heed for time or words, 
Yet mystically they impart 
The gladness that is in the heart — 
They have no sense of rule or rhyme 
Nor care for measure-beat of time ; 

They only sing 
Prom their sheer joy in everything. 

Some senseless sentence they have made 
While carelessly they dreamed or played 
They weave into a chanted glee 
Wherein is all of melody, 
And rapt of eyes and sweet of face 
They make each spot a happy place. 

We older ones 
Would catch the childsong as it runs. 

The child knows all the songs of earth— 
And each song has its tone of mirth — 
The child hears all the harmonies 
Of rustling grass and windswept trees; 
The chanting, humming girl or boy 
11 



WHEN LITTLE CHILDREN SING 

Knows all the world's dim strain of joy 

And bit by bit 
The childsong holds and echoes it. 

If you or I might tune our souls 

To the true harmony that rolls 

Above, below, and all around, 

Our songs would lose their harsher sound; 

We might, as little girls and boys, 

Unconsciously sing to our toys — 

Then I and you 
Might strike one note that would ring true. 

Perhaps the great triinnphal chord 
The angels sing before the Lord, 
The dawnsong of the stars and suns 
Is like the song of little ones — 
Pure, sweet, untouched of skill or art, 
But welling from the inmost heart 

A perfect thing — 
Such songs the little children sing. 



12 



THE MYSTERY 

Sometimes my papa, when it's night an' time to go 

to bed, 
He takes me on his lap — an' nen I cuddle down my 

head 
An' he 'ist hold me nice an' close an' sing a lot of 

things 
All whispery an' soft — you know the way your papa 

sings. 
An' nen — next thing I know, why, it's tomorrow ! An' 

I've been 
Tooked to my bed — an' I don't know who was it 

tucked me in. 

My papa, when he says 'at he will sing me off to 

sleep, 
He holds my head against him — an' there's something 

awful deep 
An' buzzin' like inside o' him, like our cat when it 

purrs. 
An' he 'ist laugh — an' mama, too — when I ast where 

is her's, 
'Cause she don't purr at all. But most 'at puzzles 

me is why 
Next thing I know I'm wakin' up an' lookin' at the 

sky. 

13 



THE MYSTERY 

Sometimes when me an' papa sits an' he sings low 

to me 
I think I'll keep myself awake, an' nen I know I'll 

see 
Whoever takes me up th' stairs an' turns th' covers 

down. 
An' by an' by, somehow, when he is singing ''Sleepy 

Town," 
Why, I forget 'ist when he stops, an ' I wake up again 
An' I'm right in my little bed, an' it's tomorrow nen. 

I ast my papa why it is, an' where does people go 
When they think 'at they go to sleep — an' he say he 

don't know, 
Utceptin' 'at th' best o' life, sometimes, to him, it 

seems, 
Is when us folks 'at 's worn an ' tired goes to the Land 

o' Dreams. 
But I don't know 'ist what that means, an' nen I 

wouldn't care 
If I knew when I went to bed, an' who put me in 

there. 

My papa says there's lots o' things 'at we can't un- 
derstand. 

An' 'at there's lots of paths where we can't see the 
guidin' hand. 

But 'at if we 'ist do our part, an ' keep a movin ' on. 



14 



THE MYSTERY 

The song 'at sings us all to sleep will echo in the 

dawn — 
Well lie down in our Father's arms an' wake to find 

the day, 
An' never ask nor wonder how we came along the 

way. 



15 



THE WONDER PLACE, 

I'm goin' to my grampa's when 

Thanksgivin ' is — an' we'll go on 
Th' train th' longest ways, an' nen 

He '11 say : "Wyl Is this little John ! ' ' 
An' nen he'll let me dwive his team 

An' laugh 'uhcause I swing th' whip 
An' try to "Tchk!" an' ist can't seem 

To get th' right twist on my lip. 

An' nen we'll dwive right up th' lane 

An' to th' house where gramma is — 
An' she'll be at th' window pane 

An ' nen say : ' ' Bless that heart o ' his ! " 
An' hug me tight, an' take me to 

Th' fireplace so's I can get warm 
An' say 'uhfore th' day is through 

She ain't su 'prised if it'll storm. 

Where grampas live — w'y, 'at's th' place 

Thanksgivin' is — an' 'ere's a dog 
'At jumps on me an' licks my face 

An ' nen barks in a hollow log ; 
An' 'ere's a calf 'at looks at me 

Like it don't like th' fings I weared, 
But I ist laugh so it can't see 

'At I'm a-gettin' half-way scared. 

16 



THE WONDER PLACE 

An' 'ere's a field 'at's ist as wide! 

Wif eornshocks runnin' on for miles, 
An' rabbits 'at will jump an' hide 

Nen hop on every little whiles. 
An' 'ere's a barn where pigeons stay 

An' Where's a grindstone an' a maul, 
An' you can slide down on th' hay 

An' grampa ist don't care at all. 

My grampa an' my gramma, 'ey 

Say 'at I got my papa's hair — 
An' his is gone! — an' every day 

I sleep in 'at big rockin' chair. 
An' gramma all th' time she give 

Me cookies; an' she's got a cat 
'At sings ! Don 't you know where they live ? 

Wy 'ere's th' place Thanksgivin 's at! 



17 



THE PARIAH 

There's Freckles Smith an' Grinner Brown 

An' Toothy Bowles — an' all the rest 
0' boys 'at is in this here town 

Is nicknamed! Even Measles West, 
'At's poor as poor, he's got me beat. 

Sometimes I wish 'at I could get 
A eye out, or lose both my feet — 

I haven't got a nickname yet. 

You see, a nickname, it ain't like 

The one your parunts names you with- 
it 's got to be a name to strike 

Yourself, like "Freckles" does Paul Smith. 
An' I ain't got no warts nor moles. 

Nor toothache when my clo'es gets wet — 
('At's why we call him ''Toothy" Bowles) 

I haven't got a nickname yet. 

If I was fat, or I was thin, 

I might be "Meat" or "Skinny" then. 
I wisht I had a pimpled skin, 

Or had a cross eye, or a wen, 
Or was left handed, or had spells 

That made my jaws an' teeth get set! 
I'm simply William Arthur Wells — 

I haven't got a nickname yet. 
18 



THE PARIAH 

You see, already there's a "Biir' 

An' "Bill}^" mixed up in our crowd; 
An' that Moore boy up on th' hill, 

They call him ''Glue," an' he is proud! 
I don't know how to get me one, 

But I'll be nicknamed yet, I bet, 
But now I don't have any fun — 

I haven't got a nickname yet! 



19 



SUNDAY CLO'ES 

I can 't go in the yard to play ; 

I got to sit right here, this way, 

An' see the Moore boys an' the Brunns 

Play soldier with their swords an' guns; 

I can't ride my velocipede — 

My mamma told me : ' ' No, indeed ! 

Why, Alfred Potts, do you suppose 

I'd let you spoil your Sunday clo'es?" 

I can't run out there in the grass, 

Nor hunt a piece o' broken glass 

To put out where my playhouse is. 

Like Willie Thompson fixes his. 

I ast my mamma if I can 

Go talk with the old garbage man. 

' ' No, no, ' ' she said, ' ' Why, goodness knows 

You'd simply wreck your Sunday clo'es.'' 

My face is washed, my hair is brushed. 
An' soon as they get baby hushed, 
My mamma '11 take me down to see 
Aunt Emmy — but I just won't be 
The least bit happy while I'm there 
'Cause I must sit still in my chair 
20 



SUNDAY CLONES 

An' never talk and swing my toes 
'Cause I've got on my Sunday clo'es. 

I wisht 'at I's a heathen! Yes, 

'Cause little heathens never dress, 

But run around in just the skin 

That they were horned an' growed up in. 

And when the missionaries give 

The clo'es to people where I'd live — 

There where it never even snows — 

I 'd say : '' Don 't send us Sunday clo 'es ! " 



21 



"DOWN STREET " 

Where our house is, w'y you can see 

'Way off to where th' houses gets 
As close apart as 'ey can be — 

An' my ma, w'y, she never lets 
Me go apast our corner, 'cause 

Some horse might knock me off my feet ; 
An' she says Mister Santy Claus 

Don't like th' boys 'at goes down street. 

So I sit on our steps an' look 

Away off 'ere an' wonder why 
Th' houses shuts in like a book 

An' leaves a little slice o' sky 
'At Stan's on end buhtween 'em so's 

'Ey can't bump up until 'ey meet. 
When I get big, w'y, nen I s'pose 

My maw will let me go down street. 

'At's where th' fire uhpartment stays 

Utceptin' when it hafto run 
Out here — an' nen all of th' drays 

An ' wagons dodge, an ' 'at is fun ! 
An' 'at 'ere boy 'at teases me 

An' brings our groceries an' meat 
He have a lot o ' fun, 'cause he 

Live 'way off where it is down street. 
22 



DOWN STREET 

One time we went 

An' ride, an' ride, an' ride an' ride 
Until I think we gone too far, 

But still th' street look just as wide. 
An' my ma she make me sit down 

An' keep my shoes off of th' seat 
An' we just only go downtown 

An' never get to see down street. 

But when I comed back home I look 

An' see how it keeps spreadin' in 
Just like when you shut up a book — 

'At must be where th' world begin. 
I ast my maw, an' nen, w'y, she 

Say : ' ' Bless us, what a quaint con-ceit ! ' ' 
But I just wish, an' wish 'at we 

Would move, an ' go to live down street. 



WHY PA DOESN'T READ 

It use' to bother pa a lot if I climb on his knee 
When he's a-readin' papers, an' ast him to *Uet me 

see." 
I want to see th ' pictures an ' to ast him what they is — 
My ma, she'd tell me not to spoil that readin' time 

o' his. 
But now, when I come 'round, he throws th' papers 

on th' floor, 
An' takes me up an' says 'at he don't want to read 

no more. 

Th' paper's full o' pictures, too — o' little boys an' 

girls — 
One boy 'at looks a lot like me, ma says, when I had 

curls. 
I saw her point it out to pa, an' he says: ''Yes, it 

does." 
An' ma, she grab an' hoi' me tight, an' say: ''What 

if it was!" 
Pa read about some other boys, about all what they 

wore, 
An' nen, he hug me, too, an' say he won't read any 

more. 

24 'X 



WHY PA DOESN'T READ 

I got a joke on pa. Today he's readin' in his chair, 
An' I come in an' climb his knee while he's a-sitting 

there, 
An' he put down his paper — nen a grea' big hug I 

get— 
An' here's th' joke on pa! His eyes an' cheeks they 

is all wet ! 
I tell him 'at he said 'at none but babies ever cry, 
An' nen he say big men is babies part th' time, 'at's 

why. 

It use ' to bother pa so much if I come playing 'round, 
Or holler when he's readin' things, or make th' 

leastes' sound. 
But now he says for me to make as much noise as I 

please, 
Because it sound like music — an' my ma says she 

agrees. 
An' nen I play, an' pa he leaves his paper on th' 

floor — 
lie says 'at when he looks at me he can't read any 

more. 



25 



POOR OLD MISTER GREEN 

Old Mister Green — w'y he's so old 
His hands ist shake like he is cold 
('Cause he's got palsy, my ma say 
When I ast why they shake 'at way.) 
Old Mister Green — I ast him is 
There any little boys o' his 
'At's lookin' out for Santa Glaus, 
An ' he say : ' ' No, but oncet there was. ' ' 

An' he ain't got no folks at all — 
No little boys to scratch th' wall, 
Nor little girls 'at wants a doll, 
Nor any pa or ma to tell 
How Santa don 't like very well 
To hear us children stomp an' yell. 
Nor cousins, nor ist folks he knows 
Like we know Millers, I suppose. 

Old Mister Green — when he come here 

W'y, was one day he shot a deer 

Right where our house is ! An ' some bears ! 

An' he saw Indians ever'wheres! 

I ast him was it lonesome nen 

When he an ' ist some other men 

26 



POOR OLD MISTER GREEN 

Is all they is. He say somehow 
It's not as lonesome as right now. 

An' nen 'ere's somepin in his eye 

'At look ist like he want to cry. 

I say: ''I wisht 'at, Christmas, you 

Could play like I'm a go' to do." 

An' he ist pat my head; nen he 

Say: "No more Christmas times for me— 

I'm all alone, you understand; 

Th' rest is in th' Christmas Land." 

An' nen he go on down th' street 

A-walkin' slow, ist like his feet 

Is tired; an' nen I heard him moan: 

''It's Christmas— an' I'm all alone." 

I ast my ma what does he mean. 

An' she say: ''Poor old Mister Green!" 



27 



SAMANTHA ANN 

My sawdust heart is broken, and my china eyes are 

sad — 
This night has been the darkest that I ever, ever had ; 
The little girl who owns me used to tuck me in my 

bed 
And whisper that she loved me, while she covered 

up my head 
And told me to be careful not to kick the covers off, 
For fear I might be croupy, or should catch the 

whooping cough. 

But yesterday a stranger came and took my cher- 
ished place — 

A waxen, flax haired stranger with a bright, unbat- 
tered face. 

The little girl who owns me let me drop upon the 
floor 

And hugged the stylish stranger, and has thought of 
me no more; 

And all last night, neglected, I have slept beside 
the wall. 

Unhappy and untidy, poor Samantha Ann — a doll. 



28 



SAMANTHA ANN 

One year ago my fortune seemed to be serenely 

bright — 
The little girl would hold me in her arms from morn 

till night; 
She made me share her play with her, she tried to 

make me eat, 
She showed me to all callers — and they vowed that I 

was sweet; 
I had four sets of dresses, and a parasol, and fan. 
And she would say that I was her beloved Samantha 

Ann. 

Alas! My dress is tattered — I've no other to put 
on; 

Half of my hair is missing, and my poor left arm 
is gone; 

And now the silk clad beauty that was smiling from 
the tree 

Has claimed all the attention which was once be- 
stowed on me. 

My sawdust heart is broken — I have slept against 
the wall 

Where she, with shouts of welcome for the other, let 
me fall ! 



29 



''PORE FOLKS " 

We're pore folks — porest on th' street — 

An' I don't haf to mind my clo'es, 
An' I'm th' first to have bare feet — 

I got to do it, goodness knows! 
Most times my pants is always tore 

An ' my hat never has no brim, 
But it ain't that 'at makes me sore, 

It's when folks say: "Don't play with him!" 

They's other boys lives hereabouts; 

I'm glad 'at I'm not like they are — 
Their mas or some one always shouts : 

"Now, Freddie, don't you go too far!" 
An' when I come 'round where they're at 

Some of 'em hollers: "Hello, Jim!" 
Their mas, or some one, don 't say ' ' Seat ! ' ' 

But they do say: "Don't play with him." 

Shucks! I don't care. I have more fun 

An' any other boy you'll name. 
They can't play with me — not a one — 

You bet they want to, jest th' same. 
One boy, he's slipped away an' played 

With me, but only once or twice. 

30 



He said one time, like he 's afraid : 

"I think 'at pore folks' boys is nice." 

We're pore folks — porest on th' street — 

An' I don't have to wash my face 
Unless ma does it, ner my feet, 

Ner haf to stay in jest one place. 
You bet when I grow up I '11 say 

To my boys : ' ' Hustle out an ' find 
Whole heaps o' boys to come an' play — 

Don't get none but th' porest kind!" 



31 



PAW'S INCONSISTENCY 

Paw gets the funny papers, an' he reads 'em every 

week, 
An' laughs at all their pictures till sometimes he just 

can 't speak. 
He'll snicker an' he'll chuckle, an' he'll show 'em to 

my maw, 
An' slap his leg an' holler they're the best he ever 

saw! 
But I don't see just why it is it gets me punishings, 
Whenever I see any chance to do some funny things> 

One time paw saw a picture of a funny little boy 
What put a tack upon a chair — an' that filled paw 

with joy. 
An' so, I took a notion to do like that funny kid — 
I put a tack upon a chair, an' paw sat down — he did ! 
Then for a day or two we had to eat things from a 

shelf. 
Why can't my paw see any joke in what I do, myself? 

Another time there was a boy — a picture boy, I 

mean — 
What painted cats an' monkeys on the tablecloth so 

clean. 

32 



Well, paw, he laughed all day at that, an' so I went 

an' got 
Some paint an' fixed our table. Now I wish that 

I had not! 
Why is it, when I 'm funny, paw he never laughs, but 

spanks ? 
I try to entertain him but I don't get any thanks. 

An' once there was a picture of a boy what fixed a 

pail 
Of water where his paw would step into it without fail 
An' then go slidin' down the stairs with water in his 

ears. 
An' paw he laughed at that until he wiped away his 

tears. 
But when I fixed the bucket Well, I 'd ruther skip 

the rest. 
Why should such funny antics make my paw call me 

a pest? 

One picture paw just howled at showed a boy what 
had a gun 

An' shot his father's legs all full of "buckshot num- 
ber one." 

I tried to show my parents that I was a humorist. 

The doctor says paw will get well ; an ' paw he shakes 
his fist. 

I wish I could do something that would cause a lot 
of joy. 

I wish I wasn't nothing but a little picture boy! 

33 



WHEN WILLIE JOHNSON SWORE 

Now — ^Willie Johnson, he lives 'cross 

Th ' alley f um our house, he does ; 
An' he ist claims 'at he's th' boss 

An' baddest boy 'at ever wuz. 
One day he dumb up on our fence 

W'en me an' Authur Brown is there, 
An ' say : ' ' You bet, if I commence 

I'd show you fellows how to swear!" 

Nen Authur double dared him to. 

An' say: **You go ahead, 'cause we're 
A sittin' wite here close to you 

An' if you swear, w'y, we can hear." 
But Willie Johnson say : ' ' I would ! 

I'd swear wite here, this minute, 'cep' 
I p'omised maw 'at I'd be good, 

An' she's wite out on our back step. 

Nen Authur Brown say: ' ' Fraidycat ! " 
An ' Willie Johnson say : ' ' You see ! 

You fellows jump down where I'm at 
An' keep wite still, an' follow me." 

So we jump down, an' Willie starts 
Wite down th' alley, clean to where " 
34 




ri 



'One day he dumb up on our fence 
When me an' Arthur Brown is there." 

— When Willie Johnson Swore. 



WHEN WILLIE JOHNSON SWORE 

Old Mister Perkins keeps his carts 
An' empty wagons standin' there. 

Nen Authur say to go ahead, 

An ' Willie say : ' ' I will, you bet ! " 
An' nen his face gets kindo' red 

An' he say he ain't ready yet. 
So — Authur calls him cow'rdycaff ! 

An' Willie look all 'round th' barn, 
An' nen he choke an' nen he laff, 

An' nen — ^yes, sir — he 'ist say — '^Darn!'' 

Nen Willie Johnson gets as white 

As he can get, an' turn an' run. 
An' Authur Brown don't treat me wite. 

He say : ' ' You coaxed him ! You 're th ' one ! 
Nen I run home, an' I cry, too, 

Till my maw gets me to con-fess. 
She turn her face, 'at's what she do, 

'Cause she is cryin', too — I guess! 



35 



THREE IN THE AFTERNOON 

Just about three in the afternoon, 

One of these early days in June, 

A fellow will fall in a soft daydream 

And look at the white, white clouds that gleam 

Like sails that are drifting across the sky, 

And, deaf to the city's toil- wearied cry. 

Will dream till again as of old he sees 

The wavering boughs of the drowsing trees. 

Just about three — then the air grew still 
And the brook breathed "Hush," as it passed the mill. 
And the bees loafed by through the mottled shade 
Where the beams of the sun through the branches 

played, 
And the wild rose glowed with the blush of June — 
Just about three in the afternoon. 

And somebody, somewhere far away, 
Was singing a song that was like the day — 
A lullaby-song, and the tones were dim, 
And they floated by like an echoed hymn; 
And you lay still, and you understood 
That the world was glad and the world was good. 

36 



THREE IN THE AFTERNOON 

And high in the sky like a pirate boat 

Was a circling hawk, on its wings afloat; 

And you would look up through the broken weaves 

Of the green-blue fabric of sky and leaves — 

And, sleepily musing, your soul would reach 

The heights of a song all too sweet for speech — 

Just about three in the afternoon 

One of those early days in June. 



37 



THE WIND IN THE TREES 

Sing, wind that shakes the trees ! 

Weave for me your rhapsodies; 

Catch the sunshine, and the blue 

Of the sky's midsummer hue, 

And the ivory that gleams 

In each high white cloud that dreams 

As it drifts across the breast 

Of the sky, in lazy quest 

Of some haven far and fair — 

Weave me sun and sky and air 

In your song that has no word, 

But we know it, having heard. 

Sing, wind, sing soft and low, 
Wlhile the boughs sway to and fro; 
Sing the thousand drowsy croons 
Of midsummer afternoons; 
Catch, ballade and roundelay 
That go pulsing through the day; 
Fling your arms and blithely troll 
Swinging strains that stir the soul, 
Roaring chants that rise sublime — 
Diapason bursts of rhyme. 
Rhyme of air and cloud and sky 
Born from your wild minstrelsy. 

38 



THE WIND IN THE TREES 

Sing, then, sing ; and let me see 
The song billows shake the tree; 
Shout and laugh, and shout again 
Till the boughs are bent — and then 
Melt into the minor bars 
That you sing beneath the stars 
When the fingertip of night 
Quiets all the crimson light 
That has swept in from the west. 
Soothing the worn world to rest; 
Whisper wistfully, and sigh 
Your low, loving lullaby. 

Sing, wind among the trees; 
Weave your endless rhapsodies. 
Choral chants that leap and surge. 
Mellow murmurs of a dirge. 
Song and sob and laughter blent 
When your fancy is unpent, 
Let me marvel at it all — 
Organ tone and trumpet call, 
Wondrous notes that come on wings. 
Echoes from Aeolian strings — 
Let me listen on and on 
Down the way your songs have gone. 



39 



THE WISDOM OF THE BOY 

He knows what word the crickets pass 
One to another in the grass; 
The spider points to pasture lands 
In quick response to his demands ; 
The ladybug spreads frightened wings 
When come his warning whisperings; 
And he can pitch in thrilling key 
The war song of the bumblebee. 

The varied pipings of the birds 

Are plain to him as spoken words; 

The odd sideglances of the jay 

Are gestures coaxing him to play; 

He knows what hour the swallows skim 

Across the pond from rim to rim ; 

Knows where the drifting hawk is bound, 

The while it circles round and round. 

The world of fancy — best that is ! 
That wonder world is all of his, 
For in his wood the elf and gnome 
And sprite and goblin idly roam — 
All this is true, for he has seen 
Their forms dance down the aisles of green, 
40 



THE WISDOM OF THE BOY 

And he has heard their catch and trill 
When all the world about was still. 

And he knows where the cloudships go 
When they are beating to and fro, 
And he knows what the trees have said 
When each bent down its heavy head 
As though the winds were high and strong- 
The winds that bear to him a song. 
Ah, this is wisdom undefiled. 
The soulborn knowledge of the child. 
The bookless learning, free and glad — 
The wondrous lore that once we had. 



41 



THE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN 

One woman went out on the way of shame 

And the wide world marveled, and read her name. 

And praised her beauty, and gaped and cheered 

When, light and fluttering, she appeared. 

But one little woman in hodden gray 

Went out to the suffering, night and day — 

And never for her was the trump of fame 

And never a cheer as she went or came. 

One woman went out on the path of lies — 

And the whole wide world praised her lustrous eyes, 

And paused and listened when she would speak. 

And marked the roses that graced her cheek. 

But one little woman in dingy black 

Went down where the weary were on the rack 

And carried the woes of the sad and lone, 

And comforted many — and was unknown. 

One woman set foot on the road of wrong — 
They blazoned her deeds in a joyous song 
That told of her daring, her charm, and wit, 
And the world went humming and singing it. 
But one little woman in homely gown 
Went seeking for sorrow about the town, 

42 



THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN 

And smiles came to gladden where she found tears- 
But never for her were the thrilling cheers. 

But somewhere the record is fairly kept — 
Unless at his task has the angel slept — 
And, doubtless, there, when the warder reads 
The beautiful tales of the golden deeds, 
In shining letters will stand each name 
Of these little women who had no fame 
But who went patiently, day by day. 
To do their work in the Master's way. 

And farther than all of the outmost suns 
Will ring the names of The Beautiful Ones. 



43 



APRIL 

Ho, the wonder of it ! Is the winter swept away ? 
Blown before the balsam breath from out the south 

today? 
Jewel-like, a blue bird gleams in circles far and high 
Under all the wonder of the sapphire shining sky; 
Down and down and down to us the lilting bird notes 

fall— 
Ho, the wonder of it when we hear the April call ! 

In a magic moment comes the waking of the brook, 
And it runs to rouse the roots in meadow land and 

nook, 
Lingers laughingly awhile amid the tangled vine 
That has loosed its hold upon the boughs it used to 

twine ; 
Hurries on and flurries on, and echoes all along 
All the mystic measures of the murmured April song. 

Earth and sky have heard it; it has swept across the 

night, 
Touching all the little stars with new and gladder 

light, 
Softening the depths of space until in them appear 
All the subtle glories of the morning of the year; 

44 



APRIL 

Dead and dull and dark before, and dismal overmuch, 
Now the sky of night is answering to April's touch. 

Ho, the marvel of it ! April's feet upon the hills 
Find the olden pathway to the valleys and the rills ; 
Now the sunshine shimmers in the distance of the day 
And the wintry veil of mist is rent and blown away. 
Morning songs are singing in the happy hearts of all — 
Ho, the music of it when we hear the April call ! 



45 



ME. UNKNOWN 

Great kings sit brooding on their thrones, 

Wlhile unforeseen rebellion comes, 
And through their castles surge the tones 

Of shouts blent with defiant drums — 
But these great kings are not alone 

"With visions of a somber hue ; 
The man who leads his life unknown. 

He has his weighty troubles, too. 

The unknown man — the grain of dust 

Upon the highway known as life — 
He suffers, too^ in broken trust, 

He meets defeat in petty strife. 
And little things will grind his heart, 

And line his face with marks of care : 
He, too, must walk his way apart, 

"With all the woe he has to bear. 

The world heeds not his little frets. 
No states wait, wondering, for him 

To end his fight with foes or debts, 
Nor marvel at his courage grim. 

For him no long and wondrous halls. 
For him no high and massive throne, 
46 



MR. UNKNOWN 

But in the compass of his walls 
He and his fears remain unknown. 

None bruits his miseries abroad, 

Nor flings his gloom from sea to sea; 
Not one in all the world is awed 

By the small griefs of such as he ; 
Yet in their way his sorrows crush — 

His sorrows and each petty thing 
Are just as great as those that hush 

The gracious laughter of a king. 



47 



HE NEVER TOLD HIS TROUBLES 

In summer time the heat might be 
The kind that forces you and me 
To tell how ''yesterday at noon 
It seemed as if a man would swoon!" 
In the winter time the bitter cold 
Might grip his nose and ears, and hold 
His fingers, too, but like a saint 
He never even made complaint — 
He never told his troubles. 

His business went all awry; 
His fondest hopes were knocked sky high; 
Competitors got all his trade, 
He lost what little he had made ; 
But though neck deep in pressing debts 
And other sorts of fears and frets 
With creditors about to sue. 
He never seemed the least bit blue — 
He never told his troubles. 

Deprived of all his hard earned wealth, 
Next came the failing of his health, 
And what he suffered none can say. 
For though in misery each day, 

48 



HE NEVER TOLD HIS TROUBLES 

With all his doctoring in vain, 
Unable to get on his feet 
Or to enjoy what he might eat, 
He never told his troubles. 

Today he sleeps his last long sleep 
Where drooping willows sadly weep, 
But, 0, the sunshine seems to love 
To send its gold down from above. 
And with its rare effulgence limn 
The stone erected over him, 
A wondrous epitaph, indeed. 
Is this which many come to read: 

''HE NEVER TOLD 
HIS TROUBLES!" 



49 



SUNDOWN ROAD 

White and smooth, serene aijd still, 
All unbroken by a hill, 
Down and down with gentle sweep. 
To the quiet House of Sleep; 
Skirted by the drowsy streams. 
Whispering the song of dreams. 
Past the fields with poppies sowed. 
Goes the Sundown Road. 

Leading down into the west, 
Where the breezes sing of rest, 
Where the kindly trees have made 
Gray retreats of peace and shade; 
Where the sounds of afternoon 
Blend and blur into a croon. 
Where the crickets chant their ode, 
Goes the Sundown Road. 

And they come from house and hall, 
Man and maid, and children — all 
Lured along the drowsy way, 
Outward from the world of day, 
Soothed by low-toned lullabies 
In the sweetest of all keys, 

50 



SUNDOWN ROAD 

Where no haunting fears forebode — 
Down the Sunset Road. 

From the countryside and town, 
One and all they journey down, 
To the sleepy song that sings 
In the very heart of things. 
Ho, the rosy road of rest 
Is of all the roads the best, 
Where the shadow^s bend and bless 
Us with all their gentleness! 
And the shoulders lose their load 
On the Sundown Road. 



51 



THE HARVESTER 

Against the sunset's purple glow he stands 

As though a statue formed of ruddy bronze, 
A warder of the golden harvest lands 

That show the silent labor of the dawns 
And noons and nights, and magic of the sun. 

And alchemy of wind and cloud and rain — 
And through the sea of wheat the billows run 

Like endless waves that sweep across the main. 

The harvester with bared head stands and sees 

The nodding grain that waits the morrow's toil, 
The waving wheat that lifts above his knees, 

The heavy grain his labor has for spoil ; 
And from the haze that hangs above the height 

Come subtle whispers from the far off lands. 
That bring a murmured message, low and light, 

Which tells they wait the labor of his hands. 

His is a greatness wrested not in war, 
A dignity but yet half understood — 

Not serf, but all the nations' servitor, 
He looks upon his work, and it is good. 

Out on the wheat his lengthened shadow slants, 
A simile of labor's shielding worth, 

52 



THE HARVESTER 

And to his ears there come the crooning chants 
That with the coming night are given birth. 

The sunset flings its last red banners high 

And still he stands, as statues stand and brood, 
A silhouette against the blazing skky — 

A man in well done toil's uplifting mood.. 
And then the night lets fall its dusky shroud 

With wondrous jewelings of star on star — 
A royal robe for him, the swarthy browed. 

Who spends his strength for peoples near and far. 



53 



MIDSUMMER DAYDREAM 

I know where there's a hill 

Where the brook makes a bend 
To go down to the mill, 

And the meadowlands end 
And the forest trees rise 

With the shadows between 
That are glad to one's eyes 

And are soothingly green. 

And yon look far away 

From the hilltop, and see 
How the breezes all stray 

Past the hawberry tree 
That is deep in the wheat, 

And go whispering low 
In the glimmer of heat 

TVTiere the red poppies grow. 

And the butterflies lag 

Near the vines on the ground, 
And the bumblebees brag 

Of the sweets they have found ; 
And the clouds sail along 

In the sea of the sky, 

54 



MIDSUMMER DAYDREAM 

And the lark trills a song 
And the thrush makes reply. 

Miles away, so it seems, 

Are the spires of the town — 
But the shade holds our dreams 

Where the light shuttles down; 
And there is not a sigh, 

And there is not a care, 
And the hilltop is high — 

And I want to go there. 



CHILD VISIONS 

What do little children see 

When their eyes look far away 
And their fancies seem to be 

In some long lost yesterday? 
Ah, their eyes, all crystal clear, 

Look into the vast beyond 
With the rapt gaze of a seer 

Finding days that long have dawned. 

What do little children see 
When a-sudden in their play 

They forget the things that be 
And gaze far and far away? 

What do little children know 

That they dream and look out thus? 
What road do their fancies go 

That is closed and barred to us? 
Do they see the pleasant trees 

In some other, hidden land, 
Hear the songs of birds and bees — 

Songs they, only, understand? 
56 



CHILD VISIONS 

What do little children know? 

Do their younger souls divine 
Where lies all the golden glow 

That one day was yours and mine? 

What do little children find 

When they subtly draw apart 
On the path the older mind 

May not trace, with all its art ? 
Dimpled hand on dimpled cheek, 

Eyes in wondrous vision wide — 
Do the little souls then seek 

Places that our long years hide ? 

What do little children find 

When their eyes look far and far? 

Who of us has yet divined . 

Where the thoughts of children are ? 



57 



THE LITTLE BAD BOY 

The bad little boy has gone to sleep, 

One hand still shut in a stubborn fist, 
As though in his dreams he would boldly keep 

Himself in position to resist. 
The bad little boy throughout the day 

Has broken the home rules, one by one, 
Has found for his feet the forbidden way, 

Has left no disturbing thing undone. 

The bad little boy — his face is calm. 

Save that a faint smile is clinging there; 
And now a forgiving, gentle palm 

Smooths all of the tangles from his hair ; 
And now he is lifted into place 

By arms unf elt in his slumbers deep ; 
And nothing but good shows in his face — 

The bad little boy has gone to sleep. 

O, all of his pranks and vexing ways 

And all of his mischief is forgot 
When down through the vale of dreams he strays ; 

And all the reproof that once was hot 
Dies out with the sigh that swells the heart 

When softly we bend over him and kiss 
58 



THE LITTLE BAD BOY 

His cheek — and we swiftly thrust apart 

His deeds of the day, when he sleeps like this. 

So, may it not be, when you and I 

As bad little boys lie down in sleep. 
The angel that marks our deeds on high 

May come on his wings of gentle sweep 
And bend over us with a patient sigh. 

When all of our blind rebellions cease — 
And whisper to such as are you and I ; 

' ' Your day is forgiven you ; sleep in peace ? ' ' 



59 



THE LITTLE THINGS 

I see them all about me, the little things iindone — 
The wagon that I promised to fix so it would run, 
The doll, the drum, the trumpet, are scattered here 

and there; 
I promised I would take them when I'd the time to 

spare. 

And he — he was so patient ; more so than I could be, 
Nor minded when I tumbled the trinkets from my 

knee, 
But went out softly singing, as do blithe little boys, 
To wondrous make-believing with all his broken toys. 

I call him in a whisper that trembles to a sigh ; 
I call him in a whisper — but wait for no reply; 
And then, as at an altar, before the toys I bow 
And touch with fumbling fingers — I'm not too busy 
now. 

Ah, now my hands are idle; my heart is idle, too — 
It does not thrill in cadence with all the laughs I 

knew. 
I count the broken treasures he asked me to make 

whol^, 

60 ■ 



THE LITTLE THINGS 

And count the niggard minutes I gave him as his 
dole. 

But I shall leave them broken, these toys that still 

are his, 
And he must hear my whisper in what fair place 

he is. 

***** 

I wonder if in heaven they will not let me do 
The little things— the little things I did not do for 
you! 



61 



SNOW PICTURES 

As thick as Vallombrosa's leaves 

The snow comes swirling; and it weaves 

White draperies in which we trace 

The milky foaminess of lace, 

And see, alert and tremulous, 

The snow sprites kiss their hands to us. 

The snow sprites leap and dance' and sail. 
And merrily they draw a veil 
Before the gloomy, naked trees 
That frown upon such revelries; 
Then swiftly, madly, hand in hand 
They trip their silent saraband. 

Then, with a magic wondrous strange 
The picture has a sweeping change. 
Here is a plain — a wintry waste 
Where neither trees nor hills are traced; 
And rhythmically clear there come 
Dull beats upon a sodden drum. 

And, shuffling, shuffling, soldierwise 
Go files of men whose weary eyes 
62 



SNOW PICTURES 

Look on and on, and see no end 
Of this wide path to which they bend. 
While limbs grow stiff and faces wan, 
They shuffle, shuffle, on and on. 

A picture strange — a picture weird ! 

Worn men with snow flecked hair and beard 

A flag that holds a filmy wreath — 

A stainless, clinging, snowy sheath; 

And guns that noiselessly roll by 

Into the white, earth touching sky. 

And now the snow sweeps in again 

And blots out flag and guns and men. 

Again the snow sprites pirouette 

Through saraband and minuette. 

As thick as Vallombrosa 's leaves 

The snow — and thus it winds and weaves. 



63 



HIS SHADDER 

Eighty year, I am, an' past — 
Nothin' much that I can do 
'Cept remember who was who, 
What they did, an' when an' how, 
An' just talk like I do now 
Of -the things that use' to be 
An ' the things I 'd hear an ' see ; 
Friends I've had — an' I suppose 
Like all men I 've had my foes. 
Eighty year — an' they go fast. 
Just got one thing left at last — 

My shadder. 

Ever think o' that? It stays 
Right clos 't to you all your days ; 
You may scheme an' tax your wit — 
You can 't get away from it ! 
An' I tell you, as for me 
There's no better thing to see 
Than your shadder, day by day, 
Stayin' with you on your way. 

Not the shadder that it was — 
Shadders change as humans does. 
First I mind of it at all 
Was one time in airly fall — 
Me a younker on the farm, 
64 




"Aw' / can't say, but I guess 

'Twas her shadder whispered 'YesT** 

— His Shadder. 



HIS SHADDER 

Wilder than a fire alarm ! 
W'y? I mind the very day: 
Sun set red — you know the way — 
An' I noticed how it made 
My boy shadder seem to wade 
Through the grass until it got 
Clean acrost the pasture lot. 

Shadders always shrinks at noon, 
But at night — One time the moon 
Made my shadder help me out 
When my mind was full o' doubt 
An' my heart was in a whirl 
All because o' — well, a girl! 
My shy shadder walked by hers — 
Shadders knows what they p 'f ers ! 
An' I can't say, but I guess 
'Twas her shadder whispered "Yes." 

So it's been — an' now I've got 
Where I like a sunny spot 
To sit in, an' dream, an' see 
My old shadder mockin' me! 
See it nod an' shake its head 
Like it said the things I said. 
Like it was made by the glow 
Of the sun o' long ago. 
Who'd 'a' thought that it would be 
All that would be left for me? 

My shadder. 

65 



THE AVERAGE MAN 

The average man is the man of the mill, 
The man of the valley, or man of the hill. 
The man at the throttle, the man at the plow — 
The man with the sweat of his toil on his brow, 
Who brings into being the dreams of the few, 
Who works for himself, and for me, and for you. 
There is not a purpose, a project, or plan 
But rests on the strength of the average man. 

The growth of a city, the might of a land 

Depend on the fruit of the toil of his hand; 

The road, or the wall, or the mill, or the mart, 

Call daily to him that he furnish his part ; 

The pride of the great, and the hope of the low, 

The toll of the tide as it ebbs to and fro. 

The reach of the rails and the countries they span, 

Tell what is the trust in the average man. 

The man who, perchance, thinks he labors alone — 
The man who stands out between hovel and throne, 
The man who gives freely his brain and his brawn 
Is the man that the world has been builded upon. 
The clang of the hammer, the sweep of the saw, 

66 



THE AVERAGE MAN 

The flash of the forge — they have strengthened the 

law, 
They have rebuilt the realms that the wars overran, 
They have shown us the worth of the average man. 

So here's to the average man — to the one 
Who has labored unknown on the tasks he has done, 
Who has met as they came all the problems of life, 
Who has helped us to win in the stress and the strife. 
He has bent to his toil, thinking neither of fame 
Nor of tribute, nor honor, nor prize, nor acclaim — 
In the forefront of progress, since progress began — 
Here 's a health and a hail to the averasje man ! 



67 



THE TRAMP 

I am a knight of an olden order, 
I am a son of an ancient line ; 

You hedge your land with a barring border- 
Never a land that may not be mine. 

Others are slaves of the sword or sabre, 
Others are bound to their thatched abode. 

Others are liege to the lords of labor — 
I am a Knight of the Open Road. 

What of the day, or the coming morrow? 

They may go drown in the tideless past. 
I have my choice — I may beg or borrow; 

I have my way — I may feast or fast. 
Is it your world? Ho, the world is roomy! 

You and your toil have their slavish place. 
I know the debt that is ever due me 

And I demand with a smiling face. 

Mine is the blood of forgotten strayers; 

Mine is the soul of the great unrest — 
Soldiers and sailors, strolling players — 

Men who know neither east nor west. 
You are the blind who provoke my laughter, 

Stumbling about in your chosen towns, 

68 



THE TRAMP 

Hugging the shade of your slanting rafter, 
Viewing my kind with your damning frowns. 

What do you know of the ceaseless calling? 

What do you know of the luring trail ? 
What do you know of the long road falling 

Down from the hill to the singing dale ? 
What do you know of the night's blue curtain, 

Swung in the sky for the sleeper 's tent ? 
What of the world? All your thoughts uncer- 
tain 

Die in the walls where your life is pent. 

I am a knight of an olden order — 

Bred of the race that of old went forth, 
Careless of land and of line and border, 

Footing it east, west, south, and north. 
Stoop to the strokes of the lash of labor, 

Bend your backs to the galling load — 
I have the whole wide world for neighbor; 

I am a Knight of the Open Road! 



69 



THE EVENING LAMP 

When shadows come a-tremble from the west 

Blent with the splendor of the sunset gleams 
And all the world is hushing into rest 

And turning down the quiet path of dreams, 
Then flashing on the frontiers of the night 

Through city streets, and farms, and far-off camps, 
Come one by one the peaceful points of light — 

The golden glow of all the evening lamps. 

Flung round the world in endless, stately pace, 

The cordons of the evening lamps are set 
In kingly hall, in mean and lowly place, 

As beacons flaring from a parapet 
So do the twilight lamps blaze in the dusk — 

Though it be winter time of close wrapped chill 
Or summer with its tang of mint and musk 

That freights the breezes drifting from the hill. 

The evening lamp ! What hale and hearty cheer 
Its soothing radiance speaks to the one 

Who sees its welcome glow as he draws near 
The home place when the weary day is done ! 

What fair songs it has made ; what musings sweet 
The memory of it has brought to those 
70 



THE EVENING LAMP 

Who trudged through alien lands on laggard feet 
And mused of it when day came to a close ! 

Low in the east the first great star of night 

Sweeps up and up as onward speeds the shade, 
And timed with it there comes the mellow light 

In hut or house, in cot or palace made. 
Of all fair lights that glad the hearts of men, 

Of all fair lights that glimmer near or far, 
Across the mountains, through the vale and glen. 

The evening lamplight mocks the evening star. 



71 



TOGETHER 

We who grow old together, 

Who wander hand in hand 
Through fair and glooming weather, 

By mountain side and strand, 
We who share pain and pleasure, 

Who share both shade and sun, 
We have life 's fullest measure 

When all is done. 

The olden songs and stories — 

It is to them we cling ; 
The olden golden glories 

Successive sunsets fling; 
Our handclasps grow the stronger 

While we walk through the years; 
Our joy is but the longer 

For all our tears. 

For us is ever glowing 

The ruby of the rose — 
The echoed summer showing 

Across the drift of snows ; 
As ashes and as ember 

Tell of the cheering blaze, 
So we old folk remember 

The wealth of days. 
72 



TOGETHER 

"Wle who share all our dreamings 

Of gladness we knew then 
Know that in fancy's gleamings 

Each good hour lives again; 
We who face one tomorrow 

Know that anear us stays 
A sheaf whence we may borrow 

Our yesterdays. 

We who grow old together — 

We have so much to share 
Of calm and lusty weather, 

Of clouded days and fair ; 
The sunset shade grows fleeter, 

The twilight has begun, 
But life has been the sweeter 

When all is done. 



73 



LINCOLN 

We mark the lowly place where he was born, 

We try to dream the dreams that starred his nights 
When the rude path that ran beside the corn 

Grew to a fair broad way which found the heights ; 
We try to sense the lonely days he knew, 

The silences that wrapped about his soul 
When there came whispers tremulous and true 

Which urged him up and onward to his goal. 

His was the dream-filled world of kindly trees ; 

And marvel reaches of the prairie lands; 
The brotherhood of fields, and birds, and bees. 

Which magnifies the soul that understands ; 
His was the school of unremitting toil 

Whose lessons leave an impress strong and deep; 
His were the thoughts of one close to the soil, 

The knowledge of the ones who sow and reap. 

And of all this, and from all this, he rose 

Full panoplied, when came his country's call, 

Strong-hearted, and strong-framed to bear the woes 
Which fell on him the bitterest of all. 

And well he wrought, and wisely well he knew 
The strain and stress that should be his alone ; 
74 



LINCOLN 

He did the task long set for him to do — 
This man who came unfavored and unknown. 

We look today, not through Grief's mist of tears, 

Not through glamour of nearness to the great, 
But down the long, long corridor of years 

Where stand the sentinels of Fame and Fate, 
And now we see him, whom men called uncouth, 

Grown wondrous fair beneath the hand of Time, 
And know the love of liberty and truth 

Brings immortality, and makes sublime. 

But, 0, this rugged face with kindly eyes 

Wherein a haunting sorrow ever stays ! 
Somehow it seems that through the sorrow rise 

The echoed visions of his other days. 
That still we may in subtle fancy trace 

The light that led him with prophetic gleams — 
That here we gaze upon the pictured face 

Of one who was a boy that lived his dreams ! 



75 



THE GEM 

Held in the hollow of your hand 

It flames with unconsuming fire ; 
Strange lights you do not understand 

Play in its heart and never tire; 
Now luminous with silver white, 

Then fainting into shifting hues 
And wondrous tintings shot with light — 

A glory that it cannot lose. 

What is it? Hidden in the earth 

Through unknown centuries it slept 
And still the secret of its birth 

In the unfathomed past is kept. 
A toy to please a pagan's eyes, 

A gaud to deck a diadem — 
Deep in its heart forever lies 

The glow which makes of it a gem. 

Mayhap a thousand thousand years 

Are echoed in the light it gives — 
The subtle light which shifts, and veers, 

And lurks, and leaps, and laughs, and lives ; 
But whence came its immortal fire 

That neither burns, nor sears, nor chars — 
Caught from the sunset's funeral pyre 

And from the dream light of the stars? 

7C 



THE GEM 

It is enough to know that here 

In this small space are caught and pent 
The summer suns of year on year, 

With all the fairest colors blent. 
The charm of roses in the dew, 

The glint of distant hills of green, 
And outspread silent skies of blue 

Are in this time old jewel seen. 

I like to think that every smile 

And every kindly word and song 
Are treasured for some far off while, 

Blent with a purpose sweet and strong 
Until deep in the centuries 

Mankind still has the joy of them 
As now some age forgotten frees 

Its radiant sunlight in this gem. 



77 



THE ANGEL 

Carve me an angel, sculptor, and let your stone be 

white, 
So white that it will shimmer, reflecting back the 

light- 
Give it a semblance, sculptor — a form and shape like 

this : 
A lassie wee and drowsy, who gives a good night kiss. 
Too weary from all her playing to open her lips to 

speak — 
And carve the chubby fingers that touch her mother's 

cheek ; 
Ah, and she needs no halo — simply a wayward curl; 
That is an angel, sculptor — somebody's little girl 

What for an angel, sculptor? Get you your marble 

fine, 
Carve it with patient purpose, coax it to curve and 

line; 
Drape it with flowing garments, give it the simple 

charms — 
Carve us a mother holding her baby in her arms. 
Wonderful, tender, hopeful, sweet she must be and 

wise 
And with the light of heaven glimmering in her eyes. 

78 



THE ANGEL 

That is an angel, sculptor— see that you carve it sure, 
Showing the love that surges out from a soul all pure. 

Carve me an angel, sculptor. Carve us a woman, old. 
And grave in all the wrinkles her withered cheeks 

must hold — 
Wrinkles that tell of sorrow, lines that the laughs 

have left; 
Give her the knotted fingers no longer quick and deft, 
Bend her with stress of toiling, bow her with weight 

of years, 
Show us the golden beauty wrought of her smiles 

and tears, 
Tell in the stone the story, how she is wan and worn 
Through all her self-denial for the ones that she has 

borne. 
That is an angel, sculptor. Grave it, and carve it so, 
And all the world will see it— see it, and bow, and 

know. 



79 



HOW DO YOU WEAR IT? 

Religion? Yes? Every Sunday you, 

In a certain church and a certain pew, 

With a solemn face and with earnest eyes 

Hear the preacher tell about paradise — 

And you think great thoughts while the anthems roll, 

And you feel a grace in your inward soul. 

Religion? Yes? Is it something that 

Goes with long frock coat and with high silk hat? 

On the six week days is your conscience mute ? 

Do you put it on with your Sunday suit? 

Of course one knows that on Sabbath day 

He must put the wiles of the world away, 

And must view all folk with a kindly scan. 

And must have some thought of his brother man — 

For the stores are closed, and the banks are shut ; 

It is through the week the coupons are cut ; 

It is through the week that we grub for pelf 

And the man who works has to think of self — 

But religion ? Ah, when the day is here 

Do you put it on with your Sunday gear ? 

Do you take it down from a wardrobe hook, 
From a sheltered place in a quiet nook ? 
Do you keep it nice, while the week goes through, 

80 



HOW DO YOU WEAR IT? 

Till on Sunday morn it looks neat and new, 
And no one who sees you would ever guess 
You would wear such a garb to your business? 
Has it neither wrinkle nor speck of dust, 
Nor a hidden patch, nor a trace of rust? 
Do you keep it spick, and serene, and fair — 
Do you put it on with your Sunday wear ? 

Do you keep it free from your Monday scowl. 
From your Tuesday rush, and your Wednesday growl, 
From your Thursday sneer, and your Friday frown, 
And the Saturday scheme that you work downtown? 
Your religion ? Yes ? Can 't you make it mix 
With the Sabbath day and the other six 
Do you carry it through the dust and mire. 
Or assume its grace 'neath the high church spire? 
On the six week days is your conscience mute — 
Do you put it on with your Sunday suit ? 



81 



THE DEVIL'S TATTOO 

The devil's tattoo is a singular air — 

You tap out the tune on the arm of a chair, 

Or beat out its bars and its measures grotesque 

While nervously eyeing the top of a desk; 

Or finger the chords of its endless refrain 

When glum at your window you tap on the pane — 

And these are the words of the devil 's tattoo : 

"There's nothing, there's nothing whatever to do — 

So what can I do? 

There's nothing to do — 
There's nothing, there's nothing whatever to do." 

Unconsciously, when you are down on your luck, 
The opening measures are sure to be struck — 
You think, when too late, if you only had known 
How affairs were to turn you would not have been 

thrown. 
Then light on the table you start the tattoo : 
"There's nothing, there's nothing whatever to do — 

The truth isn't true; 

The world is deep blue — 
There's nothing, there's nothing a fellow can do." 

The devil's tattoo is the roll of a drum 
That summons the army of weakness to come, 

82 



THE devil's tattoo 

And get you to timing the rhythmical beat 

And march with it down the long road of defeat. 

You think you have lost, when you yield to its chime ; 

You think you have fallen — you need but to climb, 

To clench up your fists and to fight your way through. 

Forgetting the words of the devil's tattoo: 

'' There's nothing, there's nothing whatever to do. 

There's nothing to do — 

So what can I do? 
There's nothing, there's nothing a fellow can do." 



83 



WITH NO MORAL 

Young fellow, I want to hold speech with you — 

But never a word of the things you do, 

And never a word of the ways you walk, 

Nor the hours you keep, nor the way you talk, 

For I know that a man is called undergrown 

If his wild, wild oats are as yet unsown. 

But I wondered if somewhere, away from here, 

Somebody — a woman — I know it's queer; 

I wondered if she doesn't bend and sigh 

O'er a picture of you in the days gone by. 

0, certainly not. I 've no mind to preach. 
And no creed to give, and no rules to teach. 
I was thinking, that's all, as I watched your face. 
And I thought that somehow I could faintly trace 
The path where the dimples played hide and seek 
When you were a toddler — there, in your cheek. 
And I wondered, that's all, as a man will do. 
Who cherished the picture she kept of you. 

You'll pardon me, surely? It's not for me 
To hinder your pleasures. A man is free 
To come and to go as he likes; and, yes, 
To act as he pleases. That's right, I guess. 

84 



WITH NO MORAL 

It's simply a fancy, because you are 

A stranger to me. And I wouldn't mar 

A moment of j^ours. But, whose fingers hold 

The picture they took when your locks were gold? 

When you were a toddler ! Your picture, then. 
Before you set foot on the path of men. 
I simply was wondering who would — Well, 
Who treasures your picture, and loves to tell 
The tales of your wonderful boyhood years? 
And maybe she kisses it, while her tears 
Come clouding the sunlight that's in her smiles 
At thinking of all of the baby whiles. 
And the measuring mark that she made on the wall- 
But then, it is not my concern, at all. 



85 



RUBAIYAT OF 0. LAZYMAN 

I 

Wake ! For the sun has scattered into flight 
The stars that flecked the freckle-face of night, 
And incense-breathing morn is here again. 
Yet, oh, to sleep some more is my delight! 

II 

The loud alarum rings above my head 
And thrills the atmosphere about my bed. 

Ah, had I but the making of all things, 
Ere yet the man had made it he were dead ! 

Ill 

* ' Arise ! The health-food on the table steams ! ' ' 
A voice adown the hallway rends my dreams. 

And through the casement float the sounds of 
feet 
Of men who hurry on to work their schemes. 

IV 

Outside I hear my neighbor's growling pup, 
Below there is the clink of dish and cup — 

Ah, what a sorry scheme of life it is 
That all things thus conspire to wake me up ! 

86 



RUBAIYAT OF O. LAZYMAN 



Methinks the Seven Sleepers, when all's said, 
Were men who to the joys of sleep were bred — 

Who knew the gracious pillow at its best, 
And loved the luring ease of morning bed. 

VI 

And when the last awak'ner slow shall creep 
To rouse the slmnb'ring ones on land and deep, 
May he have feeling for my morning nap. 
And say: ''How he enjoys it ! Let him sleep ! " 



87 



BETWIXT AND BETWEEN 

I am not prone to idleness; I do not want to shirk; 
I vvdsh that I might know just how and where to go 

to work — 
I long to show the waiting world that I am rich in 

merit, 
But still I cannot quite decide what traits I must 

inherit ; 
Two thrilling calls forever surge and whisper unto me, 
And one of them is from the land, the other from 

the sea. 

And so of mixed heredity I am a sad bewailer 
Since Adam was a farmer and old Noah was a sailor. 

Sometimes when Adam's influence is strong I am in- 
clined 

To hold the plow and till the soil — and then I change 
my mind, 

For Noah's blood is in my veins and that gives me 
the notion 

That I should brave the biting gales that blow upon 
the ocean; 

0, shall it be a sulky plow or ship that I shall ride? 

I've pondered it these many years and still cannot 
decide. 

88 



BETWIXT AND BETWEEN 

At sea I'd be a jolly tar, on land perhaps a tailor- 
But Adam was a farmer and old Noah was a sailor. 

My relatives and friends at times think they'll take 
me to task — 

"Why don't you get a move on youf" in meaning 
tones they ask, 

And then I must explain to them — it causes lots of 
bother — 

That I don't know if Noah or old Ad. was my fore- 
father. 

Whereat they sniff and sometimes sneer and almost 
make me sob 

By hinting that they think it's time I go and get a 
job! 

O, land or sea? What must I be? A jailor or a 

whaler — 
Since Adam was a farmer and old Noah was a sailor ? 



HIS RAVING 

It was on a morning sunny when I thought to spend 

some money 
For some incidental matters in a big department 

store. 
So with attitude inquiring I outlined my dim desiring 
To a person awe inspiring who stood near the open 

door. 
"Eight aisles down, and then," he shouted, ''seek 

the counter near the door — 

Near the elevator door. ' ' 

Ah, distinctly I recall it — really he'd no need to bawl 

it 
As the captain of an army bawled commands in days 

of yore. 
With his swordlike finger showing me the way I 

should be going. 
Nor to come behind, tiptoeing from his post beside 

the door, 
** Eight aisles down," the words repeating, ''then the 

counter near the door" — 

Bowing neatly as before. 

In a moment I'd have sauced him — but that moment 
I had lost him 

90 



HIS RAVING 

For a wave of women tossed him to his post beside 

the door, 
And I with that wave was merging, with that wave 

so madly surging 
In a current swiftly verging down the center of the 

store. 
Then I tried to count the counters as the wave of 

women bore 

Me, a bubble, through the store. 

Presently I grew affrighted, but a friendly face 1 

sighted ; 
''Miss," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness 

I implore. 
But the fact is I was looking for some things to use 

in cooking — 
If your anger I am brooking I am sorry, as before — 
But if you'll just give me leeway" — As the waves 

break on the shore 

I was jammed across the floor. 

Then they all began to trample on my toes to get a 

sample 
Of the goods that made the garments that a waxen 

dummy wore, 
And I cursed in Greek and Latin while they called 

for silk and satin. 
Women thin and women fat in one tremendous rush 

and roar. 



91 



HIS RAVING 

''Eight or eighty aisles," I muttered, "I am getting 
very sore. 

Let me only find the door. ' ' 

To the door at last they threw me — and I feared they 
might pursue me, 

But they swarmed about the counters, looking pat- 
terns o'er and o'er. 

Then that floorman so beguiling once more murmured 
to me, smiling, 

''Did you find" — Ah, this was riling! — "find the 
counter near the door ? ' ' 

Then I turned and shouted : " No sir ! " and I hastened 
through the door 

To go shopping nevermore. 



92 



DANIEL WEBSTER FRANKLIN GREEN 

When Daniel Webster Franklin Green went to the 
legislature 

He vowed that all the walls of fame should bear his 
nomenclature, 

That down the vista of the years, far as the future 
reaches, 

Should pour the torrent of the cheers roused by his 
burning speeches, 

That from the limbs of shackled ones his hand should 
take the fetters 

And that his fame should be inscribed in never fad- 
ing letters . 

A pleasingly majestic mien 

Had Daniel Webster Franklin Green. 

He drafted bills— to benefit us all was his intention— 
A bill to crush the wicked trusts is one that we may 

mention ; 
Another one to regulate the railway rates he fathered ; 
A dozen others he got up— however, he was bothered 
Because his work was not received with public ac- 
clamation, 
Because with all of this he did not get a reputation. 
"Too much to higher thought I lean," 
Mused Daniel Webster Franklin Green. 
93 



DANIEL WEBSTER FRANKLIN GREEN 

Whereat and whereupon he sat him down and 

drafted measures 
Providing that the plutocrats should parcel out their 

treasures, 
Providing that all bachelors should pay for being 

single, 
Providing that society with hoi polloi should mingle, 
Providing that the price of eggs should be a dime a 

dozen, 
Providing that a man could wed his uncle's second 

cousin — 

"I guess your Uncle Dan is keen," 
Smiled Daniel Webster Franklin Green. 

He saw this was the proper course, and while he 

thought upon it 
He drew a bill prohibiting the high priced Easter 

bonnet. 
In geometric ratio his fame grew all the greater 
And people whispered as he passed: ''The wondrous 

legislator ! ' ' 
He grew in girth, he rose in worth, beyond all our 

conjecture 
And now the hall is packed each time they bill him 

for a lecture. 

And in each leading magazine 

Shines Daniel Webster Franklin Green. 



94 



JAKE AND JOE 

Of all the people that I know 
There are no two like Jake and Joe. 
Now, Joe, since he was quite a youth 
Has been — well, he would stretch the truth ; 
Not lie, exactly, but when he 
Would see some one, say you or me. 
He'd stop and smile and wave his hand 
And cry:— ''Old man, you're lookin' grand! 

It's just his way. 

Jake is the other way about — 
Somehow, he always seems to doubt 
The realness of the things he sees ; 
That is, he pretty near agrees 
With you if you say you feel well, 
''But then," he'll say, "a man can't tell 
He may think that he feels all right, 
But finds his deathbed ere the night!" 

It's just his way. 

But Joe, for instance, never frets ; 
His talk is slangy with "You bets!" 
Why, each and everything he does 
Is just the best that ever was, 
95 



JAKE AND JOE 

To hear him tell it. Man alive, 
His dollar always sounds like five! 
Each fish he catches cannot fail, 
When he explains, to be a whale. 

It's just his way. 

Jake 's horse might have a faster gait ; 
Joe's horse can win with doi*ble weight; 
Jake, in the dark, will fret and scowl ; 
Joe swears that he sees like an owl ; 
Jake 's house is cramped and still with gloom 
Joe makes a palace of one room; 
Jake 's apple always has a blight ; 
Joe finds a ripe spot he can bite — 

It's just his way. 

Jake with the ' ' rheumatiz ' ' will yell ; 
Joe has it, but he's ''getting well!" 
Jake's so inclined to doubt and scoff 
That all his joy is one-half off, 
But Joe — well, he don't lie, you know, 
But everything is more than so ; 
His glowing gift of fancy's such. 
That his fun is ten times as much — 

It's just his way. 



96 



FASHION NOTES 

The bonnet she bought at a bargain last spring 
Is really still a most beautiful thing; 
The ribbons are clean and the flowers are bright, 
But she wouldn't wear it— she'd look like a fright. 
The bonnet would last for a very long while ; 
Its perfectly good — 

But it isn't in style. 

The dresses she has are as good as when new; 
They do not show wear, as such things often do ; 
There's never a rip nor a stain on the goods — 
But she wouldn't wear them and live in the woods! 
She says, with a sorry attempt at a smile: 
"They are perfectly good — 

But they're all out of style." 

Her furniture 's gone to the second hand man ; 
Her pictures have also gone under the ban; 
The rugs on the floors and the tints on the walls 
Must change, for the edict of fashion now falls. 
They clutter the walk, a disconsolate pile; 
They're perfectly good — 

But they've gone out of style. 

97 



FASHION NOTES 

Her husband — poor man ! — she is not seen with him. 
It was hard to decide, but her duty was grim. 
She had no complaint of his manner of life, 
And he seemed most proud of his excellent wife — 
He had not a trace of deceit or of guile ; 
He was perfectly good — 

But he wasn't in style. 



98 



AND SO 4TH 

The glorious Fourth was dawning fast 
When down the dim back stairs tliere passed 
A boy who heard with fretful air 
His mother call: *'Now, you take care," 
And so 4th. 

A cracker made of dynamite 
He took, and set the fuse alight. 
It went off with a rousing roar 
And nearly all the neighbors swore— 
And so 4th. 

Until the breakfast bell had pealed 
The backyard was a battlefield 
If one might judge by all the sound 
That filled the air and shook the ground. 
And so 4th. 

He ate, and hurried out again; 
He got some more firecrackers then 
And shot them under upturned pails 
And fastened them to stray dogs' tails, 
And so 4th. 

L or u 99 



AND SO 4th 

He kept this up till dewy eve ; 
He burned Ms hat, his pants, and sleeve; 
He frightened unsuspecting folks. 
By some half anarchistic jokes, 
And so 4th. 

When dark came on, this reckless boy 
Touched Roman candles off with joy. 
The firemen soon ran up to douse 
The burning gable of the house, 
And so 4th. 

At last there came a frightened shout — 
He thought a rocket had gone out; 
He said : " I '11 just see if it is ; " 
He looked ; the rocket gave a whiz, 
And so 4th. 

There was a sizzle and a bang; 
The ambulance came with a clang; 
The doctor came and whispered low; 
The mother said: ''I told you so," 
And so 4th. 

The boy went riding in a hearse; 
His gravestone bears a touching verse 
Which tells how he was called away 
Upon one sad and solemn day — 
And so 4th. 



100 



LINES TO A BALD SPOT 

When first you capped my thoughtful dome, 
Ere yet you made yourself at home, 
My friends would look at you and grin : 
' ' Old man, your hair is getting thin. ' ' 
At first I mused on you with dread — 

Now spread, blame you, spread ! 

I soaked you in expensive oil ; 
My scalp I farmed as though 'twere soil ; 
I plowed it with a rasping comb. 
My brush in harrow style would roam 
Across you. Still more hair I shed — 

Now spread, blame you, spread ! 

Germs, microbes, and bacilli, too, 
I killed, and still the bare space grew. 
Of tonic I have used a tub ; 
Each day I used to rub and rub. 
By hirsute aspiration led — 

Now spread, blame you, spread ! 

Electric shocks and summer sun 
Have failed to put you on the run; 
Once, to deceive me, you let hair 
Peep forth, and waste and wither there, 
101 



LINES TO A BALD SPOT 

But like a vapor soon it sped — 

Now spread, blame you, spread ! 

Grow larger yet, grow far and wide — 
I shall not train my locks to hide 
Your bare and glistening expanse; 
You have led me too long a dance ! 
So do your worst with my poor head — 

Now spread, blame you, spread ! 



102 



RUNNING NO RISK 

''Indeed," she told the druggist's clerk, "I don't 

know what to do — 
These patent remedies hold risks of which I never 

knew; 
This week I've read of lots of them and find that 

alcohol 
Is made the base — how terrible! — of nearly each and 

all." 
The druggist's clerk said that the doctors frowned on 

competition ; 
However, that it might be well to exercise discretion. 

''But can you tell," she asked the clerk with some- 
thing like a shrug, 

"If I am apt to get a craze for spirits or for drug? 

I shudder when I think of how I may be tempting 
fate. 

And possibly become a slave to drink or opiate." 

The clerk remarked : "I know it's true the magazines 
abuse 'em. 

But as to all these remedies, there's lots of people 



She bit her lips, she frowned, and thought, she rub- 
bed her dimpled chin, 

103 



RUNNING NO RISK 

Then sighed in fretful wise and said: *'I'd think it 

was a sin 
If I should" — then upon the soap and powder case 

she leaned — 
" If I should wake an appetite and be a liquor fiend ! ' ' 
The clerk said: ''Really, Miss, there's folks that go 

and get a habit 
From using stuff that wouldn't phase the make up 

of a rabbit. ' ' 

( 
''Well, if you're sure," she murmured then, "I really 

think that I 
Will, just this once, test what I have been often urged 

to try." 
The clerk turned to the shelf of cures and asked: 

"Which is it, please?" 
His hand uplifted, ready on the chosen one to seize. 
She blushed and said: "My family, my closest 

friends and pastor 
Advise me that it's what I need. I'll take a porous 

plaster ! ' ' 



104 



AN UNCLE BILL STORY 

''Tell you a tale o' the sea? I will; 

Come gather around," said Uncle Bill. 

Then Jacky and Jenny climbed one on each knee 

To hear all this marvelous tale of the sea : 

'' 'Twas when I was out on the Nancy Q. 
A-roamin' around on the ocean blue 
That happened this incident strange and true. 
The Nancy was makin' for land one day 
When suddenly there was the deuce to pay 
Where all o' the trip had been blithe an' gay. 

''We stuck on the slope of a mighty wave, 
Though many a stagger the Nancy gave 
It seemed we were bound for a watery grave. 
The wind, don 't you see, was from dead ahead ; 
The current, as doubtless you may have read. 
Was runnin' the other way instead. 

' ' The Nancy would climb to about the top 
Then seem to give up, and would slowly drop ; 
She slid to the bottom of that there hill — 
Or billow, or wave — and she'd then stand still 
Till the current would carry her up, an' then. 
By ginger, she'd simply slide down again I 
105 



AN UNCLE BILL STORY 

''So back'ards an' for'ards she slid five weeks, 
An' never a schooner the captain speaks; 
It seemed like the ocean was bleak an' bare 
For nobody else but ourselves was there; 
We slid an' we dumb, an' we dumb an' slid 
Until — well, we pretty near starved, we did! 

"The captain he wept, an' the second mate 
Ast me what to do for to get things straight, 
Then I told the mate of a litle plan 
An' he said that I was a brainy man. 
We all got behind and we pushed the ship 
Till she mounted the wave an ' resumed her trip. 

''The captain said I was both wise an' bold — 
But somehow I caught quite an awful cold, 
And never again would your uncle choose 
To get overboard without overshoes." 



106 



THE CURING OF WILLIAM HICKS 

Bill Hicks had asthma — he would swear 

With each recurring paroxysm. 
He cured it — lived out in the air, 

And that gave him the rheumatism. 

The doctors cured his rheumatiz — 
Of that there never was a question. 

Strong acids stopped those pains of his 
But left him ill with indigestion. 

Dyspepsia fled before a course 

Of eating grain. (It would delight us 

To cheer this scheme till we were hoarse, 
But Bill then had appendicitis.) 

He rallied from the surgeon's knife 
And laid six weeks without a quiver ; 

The operation saved his life — 

The loafing, though, knocked out his liver. 

To cure his liver troubles he 

Took muscle stunts — you know how they go. 
From liver ills he then was free 

But all the strains gave him lumbago. 

107 



THE CURING OF WILLIAM HICKS 

Lumbago is a painful thing — 

A masseuse with a visage solemn 
Eubbed the lumbago out by spring 

But twisted poor Bill's spinal column. 

To rid his backbone of the twist 

They used some braces — they were careless — 
The padding for his head they missed ; 

They made him straight and left him hairless. 

Drugs were prescribed to grow his hair; 

These acted just as represented, 
But through some woeful lack of care 

They soaked in, and left him demented. 

Then to a sanitarium 

They took poor Bill, and he was treated; 
His brain with health began to hum — 

Next asthma! "Ward was poorly heated! 

''More open air," the doctors said, 

But Hicks cried: *'No, you cannot lure me. 
I'll stay right here upon my bed 

And shoot the man that tries to cure me!" 



108 



THE EDUCATED BEE 

Gillicuddy Migglebury had an educated bee— 

A humble bee, in truth, but very talented was he ; 
Gillicuddy taught him music till he sang in any key, 
And his name was Fuzzy Wuzzy— he was fuzzy, 
don't you see? 

"W^as he fuzzy? Yes, he was. 

Gillicuddy Migglebury took this humble bee to church 
And he let the bee go seeking for a comfortable 
perch. 
Now the bee went to the choir loft in its aimless, rest- 
less search, 
And among the singer's bonnets he began to loaf 
and lurch — 

Was he lazy? Yes, he was. 

When the choir began to warble then the bee began 
to sing, 
And he boomed a bass arrangement just as nice 
as anything — 
But the liquid-voiced soprano felt the rustle of his 
wing 
And she paused between the measures to say: *'0, 
you awful thing ! ' ' 

Was he awful? Yes, he was. 
109 



THE EDUCATED BEE 

Now, a bee, you know, has feelings (honest pride we 
must admire) 
And this bee was slightly angered by the spiteful 
singer's ire, 
So he answered with his stinger to that singer in the 
choir 
And she shrieked a shriek of terror and she yelled 
a yell of "Fire!'' 

Was she fiery ? Yes, she was. 

Then the others lost the motif of the anthem they 
had sung, 
And their books in frenzied swiftness at the bumble 
bee they flung, 
While about their heads, delighted, in the atmosphere 
he hung 
And he bumbled and he grumbled and he rumbled, 
and he stung ! 

Was he busy? Yes, he was. 

Seeing all this tense excitement, straight the minister 
arose 
And attempted to dissuade the choir from all its 
throws and throes, 
But the bee came down upon him like a warrior on 
his foes 
And he got the dominie a dab upon his Roman nose. 
Was he nosey ? Yes, he w^as. 

0, the tumult they created floated out across the town, 
And was heard by the fire marshal, Mr. William 
Henry Brown, 

110 



THE EDUCATED BEE 

Who post-hasted to the church and with a grave, of- 
ficial frown, 
Ordered all, the bee inalnded, that they instantly 
sit down. 

Was he sitting? Yes, he was. 

That is all— the bee was captured, we are vory glad to 
tell. 
By his master, Migglebury, who returned him to 
his cell — 
But they say that when the preacher felt the sting 
and gave his yell 
He referred to a location which it's not polite to 
spell. 

Was he burning? Yes, he was. 

Gillicuddy Migglebury had an educated bee — 

Just a humble bumble bee that sang in almost any 
key; 
But he never ever afterward joined in the harmony 
Of the choir that sang the anthems for a high ar- 
tistic fee. 

Was he wicked ? Yes, he was. 



Ill 



MISTER WHAMMY— CUM— WHIM 

Sometimes when boys is cuttin' up, 
Or poundin' wif their birfday cup 
Against th' tabl(| — cause most boys 
1st has to keep a-makin' noise — 
Their pa he says for them to stop 
Or else they're go' hear somepin' drop ! 
An' they don't hear their pa, nor pay 
Atten-chun when he talks that way, 
Why, nen old Mister Whammy-eum-whim, 
So lean, an ' long, an ' light, an ' slim — 
Why, nen sometimes he takes those boys 
'At's makin' all this awful noise 
An' won't hear what their pa he says, 
An' punishes in dif rent ways. 

One time there is a boy 'at makes 
So much noise 'at th' house ist shakes ! 
An' when his pa he says to "quit" 
This boy he ist don't hear a bit — 
An' nen old Mister Whammy-cum-whim 
He come, an' says he's after him. 
An' take that boy to where he's got 
More kind o' tools — I don't know what 
He ain't got! An' he tell this boy: 
112 




Bad boys better lookout for himT 
''Old, slim Mister Whammy-cum-whim — 

— Mister Whammy-Cum-Whim. 



MR. WHAMMY-CUM-WHIM 

**I'm go' to teach you to an-noy 
Your pa, when he is tired, an' tries 
To read, an' rest his achin' eyes." 
Says he : * * For boys 'at ist never hears 
I got a waj^ to im-prove their ears !" 

Nen old Mister Whammy-cum-whim says : ' ' Ho ! 

I ought to a-done this long ago." 

He grab that boy an' he stretch his ears — 

But he don't pull till he bring th' tears 

'Cause this here boy, why, he ist can't feel 

Th ' pull ! An ' he never even squeal 

Till he go to look in th' lookin' glass — 

An' his ears is wide, so's 'at he can't pass 

Through the door 'less he turn an' go side-ways! 

An' old Mister Whammy-cum-whim he says: 

"I'll bet you hear ist th' leastest sound 

If it's in th' air, or it's underground; 

An' I'll bet you mind what your pa says now — 

Or at least you will hear him, anyhow ! ' ' 

Old slim Mister Whammy-cum-whim! 
Bad boys better look out for him! 



113 



PIE 

Why is it no one ever tries 

To learn who 'twas invented pies? 

What woman, beautiful and just, 

First rolled, and pinched, and cut the crust, 

And, to alleviate distress, 

Filled it with pungent happiness? 

First, there is juicy apple pie — 
For this did Father Adam sigh. 
It was no apple, red and sweet. 
That led astray his halting feet — 
It must have been an apple pie 
That loomed before his longing eye. 
Such pie — such apple pie, forsooth, 
As folks remember from their youth — 
A pie with prinked and crumpled edge. 
Each slice of which would make a wedge 
To fetch one's good intent apart 
From any clutch on mind or heart; 
It is no wonder, after all. 
That Adam was inclined to fall. 

Then, there are chicken pie, and lamb. 
And oyster, mutton, veal-and-ham, 

114 



PIE 

And currant and gooseberry pie, 
Blackberry, prune, and cherry pie, 
Peach, pluni, and sweet potato pie — 
Say, ever eat tomato pie? 
Tomato pie"? Almost unknown, 
Yet it deserves a pastry throne 
For when it glows aright we see 
The purple robe of royalty; 
And, 0, the taste and tang of it 
When by a hungry human bit! 

Such stuff as dreams ! Aye, dreams like these 
That comets are the bits of cheese 
And all the planets in the sky. 
And little stars, are luscious pie ! 
Our hearts in gladness to immerse 
By eating through the universe ! 
0, one should never criticise 
The sober souls who scoff at pies, 
Whose views of pie are dark and grim. 
For they leave so much pie for him ! 
Come, build a tablet; set it high: 
''To Him or Her Who First Made Pie." 
0, Pie! 0, my! 



115 



TO A CIGAR 

0, Panatella, you are blent 

With much of human element, 

And when your form and fate we scan 

We think how you resemble man. 

We judge you by the wrapper, which 
Is thought to make you poor or rich ; 
And man — by outer garb of his 
We reckon what the filler is. 

Although man at his fortune mocks, 
Like you, he 's sometimes in a box ; 
Like you, his maker's cunning hand 
Determines what shall be his brand. 

Sometimes you are domestic. He 
Is often so compelled to be. 
Again, to honor custom's due 
He must provide much revenue. 

And man — like you, a helpless thing — 
Is made for some one 's pleasuring ; 
Like you, some day he meets his match ; 
Like you, he many dreams will hatch. 
116 



TO A CIGAR 



0, Panatella, you and man 
Indeed fulfill the selfsame plan, 
For in the end aside you're cast 
And come to ashes at the last. 



117 



LINES TO THE SEVENTEEN YEAR LOCUST 

0, seventeen year locust! 

Now through the ground thou pokest 

Thy penetrant proboscis, 

And, spurning grass or mosses, 

Thou climbest up the treeses 

And baskest in the breezes ! 

0, seventeen year locust! 
In balmy warmth thou soakest 
Until thy worn out duster, 
By dint of fuss and fluster. 
Finds its discarding final 
By splitting up the spinal ! 

0, seventeen year locust! 

On thee our eyes are focused; 

The old inhabitanters 

And ancient tale descanters 

Now vow that they remember 

Thee, ''three years, come September!" 

0, seventeen year locust! 
Full soon in joy thou croakest 
Thy melody that raspest 
118 



LINES TO THE SEVENTEEN YEAR LOCUST 

A fellow till he gaspest 
Because thy style of singing 
Is far from rapture-bringing. 

Cicada septendecim, 

Herbivoristic besom! 

How gladsomely thou skippest 

As each green tree thou strippest, 

Until thy luscious marrow 

Dost tempt the English sparrow ! 

Sing, seventeen year locust! 
For thou art hocus-pocused. 
Two lays are in thy life-time — 
One singing and one wife-time — 
One long, large, good, square dinner — 
And then farewell, thou sinner! 



119 



AN ARTIFICIAL TRAGEDY 

There was an artificial man — 

His hair was not his own ; 
One eye was glass ; one ear was wax ; 

His nose was carved from bone ; 
His legs were manufactured ones; 

His teeth were deftly made ; 
Six ribs of rubber also were 

Within his form arrayed. 

He wooed a maid of paint and puff, 

Whose face and form were art, 
And found she had, when they were wed, 

An artificial heart. 
However, they did not indulge 

In petty stress and strife — 
They hired their fussing done, and led 

An artificial life. 

They read by artificial light; 

Ate artificial rice ; 
Drank artificial water, cooled 

By artificial ice; 
An artificial organ played 

Them artificial tunes; 
A phonograph would soothe their babe 

With artificial croons. 
120 



AN ARTIFICIAL TRAGEDY 

Alas ! At last there came a day 

To harrow up the soul ! 
The artificial man could not 

Buy artificial coal, 
And with no artificial heat 

To warm their chilly breath, 
They imitated other folks 

In artificial death. 



121 



OLD MIS' RAIN 

Old Mis' Rain she come along a-creepin' an' a-creep- 

in', 
Hid behind the hill an' kept a-peepin' an' a-peepin' — 
Wind commenced to sing an' set the flowers all to 

reelin ' ; 
Like as if they's jiggin' it a-toein' an' a-heelin'; 
Then like when you tap upon a tambo with your 

knuckles 
Old Mis' Rain began to dance, a-steppin' to her 

chuckles. 

Comin' down the hill she stopped an' nodded to a 

daisy, 
Kind o' sort o' loaf in' like she's feelin' awful lazy, 
Laughin' at the meadow larks that hurried under 

cover — 
Smilin' with the sunshine that was miles an' miles 

above 'er: 
Then when Mister Thunder drummed : " I '11 show you 

who 's your master ! ' ' 
Old Mis' Rain she tucked her skirts and got to dancin' 

faster. 

Out across the level fields a-gleamin' an' a-glancin'. 
Here an' there an' everywhere a-hurryin' an' 
prancin', 

122 



OLD mis' rain 

Double shuffle, jig an' break, an' laughin' as she step- 
ped it — 
Mister Thunder beatin' time an' cheerin' while she 

kept it. 
Now she tripped the lady's chain an' sashayed down 

the middle. 
Wind a-eroonin' through the trees as if it played a 

fiddle. 

Old Mis' Rain she danced her way to where the sun 

was settin', 
Not a step an' not a bow an' not a whirl forgettin', 
Then she turned an' looked at us, a-dimplin' an' a- 

blushin' — 
Mister Thunder an' his drum a-growlin' while they's 

hushin ' — 
Old Mis' Rain she called to us: "My blushes give 

you warnin' — 
Like as not I'll come again to dance tomorrow 



123 



SOAP BILIN' 

She's got th' iron kittle swingin' underneath th' 

trees — 
An' when She swung it up I guess She kind o' fooled 

th' bees, 
They's only one or two o' them a loaf in' round th' 

place 
A-huntin' airly flowers out an' diggin' for a tas'e 
O' honey in th' heart o' them — an' I just bet a dime 
They thought 'at She 'uz thinkin' it 'uz apple butter 

time. 

They might 'a' knowed — but then o' course the bees 

has been asleep 
An' couldn't know th' way 'at She has made a pi'nt 

to keep 
Th' ashes f'om th' fierplace, an' save th' scraps o' 

fat, 
An' git th' best time o' th' moon f'om ol' Keziah 

Pratt. 
Ye know th' moon mus' be jest right er they ain't 

any hope 
0' gittin' good results when ye set out to bile your 

soap. 

An' so them lazy bees they watched — they buzzed 
aroun' at dawn 

124 



An' wiped the'r lips an' rubbed the'r ban's wbile 
She 'uz puttin' on 

Th' kittle, 'cause they 'membered how th' apple but- 
ter smelled 

An' how they gaumed the'rselves 'ith juice until they 
fairly swelled. 

I swan! When She poured in th' grease I laughed 
like all possessed. 

Them bees — well, 'tain't no odor blowed from Araby 
th' blest! 

Them disapp'inted bees! Wy, say, they hovered 

roun' an' sniffed 
An' seemed to be a waitin' for th' apple smell to 

drift 
Up to 'em. When it didn't come they buzzed an' 

hummed an' rared 
An' acted like they'd sting Her, too, if so be as they 

dared. 
But She — She's in no merry mood — no day for 

fussin'. Nope. 
I reckon She's best left alone when She is b'ilin' soap. 

Can't blame th' bees no more'n me — just when them 

apple blooms 
Had ought to be a sendin' out the air full o' perfumes 
It isn't jest th' finest thing to find th' airth an' sky 
A-soakin' 'ith th' smelliness o' bacon rinds an' lye! 
Now, I jest slipped away from there as quiet as you 

please 
An' lit out fer th' meadow lot — an' there 'uz them 

there bees ! 

125 



''OLD DOC" 

Kind of a old back number — never got up to date — 
Leastways he ain't no doctor like they turn out of 

late; 
Never goes in for speeches, never describes these 

germs, 
Never scares all his patients with these here Latin 

terms — 
All of us folks he 's treated feel like we was his flock — 
Trouble, an' joy an' sorrow, he treats it all-^-Old Doc. 

Huh ! When he comes to see you, it's like the mornin' 

light 
Laughin' its way in gladness out of the heart of 

night — 
He doesn't look so solemn you feel inclined to say: 
' ' How is the coffin market ? What is the price today ? ' ' 
Thumbs at your pulse a minute, looks at your eyes an ' 

tongue. 
Chuckles: "You'll live a while yet, 'less 'n you might 

be hung ! ' ' 

Never hear him a-talkin' how when a man gets old 
He ought to quit his livin ', his hands is due to fold ! 

126 



He's fought a world o' sickness; lightened a world 

o' fears 
Sence he's been dosin' us folks, nigh onto fifty years. 
When you are losin' handholts, Doc. says for you to 

Never too old to live, boy ; always too young to die ! " 

Yes, he's a old back number — mebbe he don't know 

much, 
Mebbe he ain 't got learnin ', got no professor 's touch ; 
Still he ain't always tellin' when you had best be 

killed— 
Curin' 's the work he aims at, that's how his time is 

filled. 
He's what the feller sung of — shade of a great, great 

rock 
Out in the world's big desert — that's what he is, 

Old Doc ! 



127 



HOWDY, MR. WINTER? 

Howdy, Mr. Winter! If it isn't you again! 
Haven't had a visit from you since I dunno when. 
Though I heard you laughin' — must 'a' been a week 

ago— 
When the north wind shouted just as it began to 

blow ; 
Thought I heard you chuckle when the grass was 

turned to brown 
An' the withered flowers lost their holt an' fluttered 

down. 
Hear you at the window; hear you in the chimney, 

too — 
Howdy, Mister Winter ; howdy, howdy do ! 

See the leaves a-racin' down the middle o' the street, 
Leapin' an' a-dancin' like they all was bound to beat, 
Jumpin' far an' fu'ther till they're scattered round- 
about — 
Some gives up an' falters like they was all tuckered 

out; 
They all know you're comin', and they rustle from 

the trees 
Catchin' in their hurry to the fingers of the breeze, 
Worryin' an' scurryin' to get away from you — 
Howdy, Mister Winter ; howdy, howdy do ! 

128 



HOWDY, MISTER WINTER? 

Little brook is sleepy where it winds around the hill — 
Yesterday 'twas singin' but today it's very still; 
Somethin' come an' told it in the middle afternoon 
An' it stopped its singin' — never finished all the 

tune. 
Hawk away up yonder in a never-endin ' sail ; 
Somewhere from the stubble comes the whistle of 

a quail; 
Frosty mist a-creepin' where the sky was clear an' 

blue — 
Howdy, Mister Winter ; howdy, howdy do ! 

Howdy, Mister Winter! I can hear you at th' door. 
Got the fire a-blazin' an' the shadows paint the floor. 
Play among the pictures; an' the ruddy gleams o' 

light 
Stream out through the windows, where you're waitin' 

in the night. 
I can hear you mutter in the bushes down the lane, 
See your snow flakes pattin' on the glowin' window 

pane. 
Here's the place for me to be, an' there's the place 

for you — 
Howdy, Mister Winter ; howdy, howdy do ! 



129 



THE COAXIN' RIVER 

I knows dey is wuk foh me ter do, 
But I dess so drowsy thoo en thoo 
Dat hit seem ter me dat hit dess ain' right 
Foh er man ter wuk fum mawn twell night. 
En I needs de coin, ca'se mah clo'es is ol' 
En mah pockets ain' got er thing ter hoi', 
But I wish dis wuk would dess lemme be 
When de rivah hit keep a-coaxin' me. 

de riveh keep on a-coaxin' me — 
A-coaxin', a-coaxin', a-coaxin' me — 
En hit sing : ' ' Down hyuh by de wilier tree 
Is de place whah er man had oughter be!" 

De riveh hit hums de whole day long 

Dess like es if hit 'ud sing er song. 

En hit seem ter chuckle : ''0, doan' yo' wish 

Yo' could drap yo' wuk en could come en fish?" 

Ef I tell de boss dat I dess cain' wuk 

He'll cuss, en 'low dat I want ter shuk. 

But, whut'll I do? Now, I want ter know, 

When de riveh keep on a-coaxin' so? 

de riveh keep on a-coaxin' so — 
A-coaxin', a-coaxin', a-coaxin' so — 

130 



THE COAXIN' river 

En hit whispeh: **Man, dey is boun' ter bite 
En ef yo' doan' fish, yo' doan' treat 'm right! 

I dess cain' slave in dis br'ilin' sun. 
Dey ain' no use — I is naeh'ly done! 
When de riveh coax, I can hahdly wait 
Twell I git er can en go dig some bait. 
So I's gwine ter look foh my hook en line 
En dat 'liable two-bit pole er mine, 
En I'll sit en nod wid de floatin' bob — 
Ca'se de riveh coax twell I lose mah job ! 

de riveh hit keep a-coaxin' me — 
A-coaxin', a-coaxin', a-coaxin' me — 
En hit laughin' now like hits sides done split; 
' * Um-huh ! I knowed I could fetch yo ' yit ! " 



131 



AFTER AWHILE 

All dem roses gwine ter fade ; 

Honey, doan' yo' sigh. 
Gwine ter be mo' roses made 

Foh yo' bye-an'-bye; 
Gwine ter be mo' roses grow — 

Doan' yo' worry, chile, 
'Bout dem tho'ns dat hu't yo' so: 

Roses — afteh 'while. 

"We dess 'bleeged ter hab some night 

Sho' as yo' is bo'n; 
Afteh 'while hit gwine be light — 

Finest kin' o' mo'n. 
Dahkes' clouds dat eveh was 

Hangin' 'roun' dis chile; 
Doan' yo' worry none, because — 

Sunshine, afteh while. 

All dem teahs dat come today 

Has dey puppose, too ; 
Afteh while dey's gwine erway — 

Hit's de way dey do. 
Teahs dess wash erway yo' woe; 

Doan' yo' worry, chile. 
Simshine bring de rose, yo' know — 

Afteh while, a smile! 
132 



THE HOME-COIMING 

Sure, it's years an' years, alanna, since we saw you 

leave the door, 
But you're comin' home tomorrow, an' you'll never 
leave us more. 
You are comin' home, aroon, 
Wid the brightness of the noon, 
An' the mother's lookin' younger than she ever did 
afore. 

Ah, 'twas all the world between us when you went 

across the sea ; 
Just a towhead Irish laddie fresh from playin' at my 
knee, 
Wid the curls upon your brow — 
An' you've grown to manhood now. 
But you've always been the laddie that you used to 
be, to me. 

There'll be scrapin' of the fiddles when the neighbors 

come to greet. 
An' the smilin' of the mother's sure to make your 
welcome sweet. 
Sure, she's often, often wept 
As she told of how you crept 
Through the roses where the blossoms tried to kiss 
your little feet. 

133 



THE HOME-COMING 



'Twill be joy for all tomorrow, when you're in your 

home again, 
But you'll never be the laddie that I laughed an' sang 
wid then ; 
An' I somehow — Never mind! 
Sure, the tears would make me blind. 
But I somehow wish the laddies wouldn't grow up 
into men. 

Ah, it's years an' years, alanna, since your boy feet 

hurried down 
To the ship that stood awaitin' over there beyond the 
town. 
But you're comin' home, aroon, 
Wid the brightness of the noon — 
And the mother 'd not change places wid the queen 
in golden crown. 



134 



''MUSHMELONS" 

Mushmelons! They'll be good an' ripe in jest a little 

while — 
I reckon they're the best; although they're sort o' 

out ' style. 

Some people likes — er says they likes — th ' watermelon 

best, 
An' 'low they's nothin' finer fer to put behind th' 

vest. 
I know it's red as ary rose, an' mighty nigh as sweet — 
But say! Old time mushmelons! Wy they simply 

can't be beat! 

Then there's them little nutmeg things, an' canta- 

lopes, an' gems — 
So triflin' 'at it's hard to tell th' melons f'm th' 

stems. 
They's lots o' people says 'at these is what they most 

p 'fer — 
But they ain't got mushmelons beat, I tell you now. 

No, sir! 

Mushmelons — when they're good and ripe, they got a 
rich p 'fume 

135 



MUSHMELONS 

Jest like the coaxin' tang 'at holds a sweet shrub bush 

in bloom ; 
Th' inside is as yaller as the finest kind o' gold. 
Mushmelons — when they're thataway, I want all I 

can hold. 

"Wi'y, when I feel th' yaller juice a tricklin' down my 
chin, 

An' have to shet my lips an' sort o' breathe th' good- 
ness in — 

Baldheaded an ' rheimiatic as I be, I 'm full o ' joy 

An' e'enamost as happy as I was when jest a boy ! 

Mushmelons! Th' old-fashioned kind '11 be here after 

while — 
1 reckon they're th' best they is, if they be out o' 

style ! 



136 



HIS ENEMIES 

Wind and weather and rain and sun — 
Wasn 't for them I 'd get things done ; 
Fixed no patch for the garden truck — 
Moon was wrong; it was just my luck. 
Find a penny and lose a dime — 
Luck is against me, every time. 

Bet a cent it would rain all day 

'F 1 had a farm and was making hay. 

Had one farm ; it was close to town ; 

Stock strayed out where the fence was down, 

Crops was poor, 'cause I farmed it wrong — 

Luck is against me, right along. 

Heard of a job I could get last night; 
Thought I would go ; didn 't feel just right — 
Went there today 'bout a-half past nine — 
Fellow had stolen that job o' mine ! 
He went around last night — but, say. 
Luck is against me, every day. 

Heired some money when I was young — 
Them was the days when my dollars rung ! 
When all the cash I had was spent, 
Then I learned what "be careful" meant. 
137 



HIS ENEMIES 

'F I had the money I'd save it right — 
Luck is against me, day and night. 

Wind and weather and rain and sun — 
None o' them's lucky for me ; not one ! 
Hear of a place where there's work to spare- 
Somebody's got it when I get there, 
Always a hill that I 've got to climb — 
Luck is against me, every time. 



138 



ISAIAH PERKINS' CREED 

We talk about the Simple Life as though 'twere some- 
thing new, 

As though we've just discovered what ideal to pur- 
sue, 

Yet old Isaiah Perkins, who expired in '83, 

Had formed a creed of life that was as simple as 
could be. 

Long, long ago, all through the year, Isaiah Perkins 

went 
With one blithe measure on his lips— his song of 

pure content; 
He softly sang this ballad, which it seems he thought 

would give 
His biasless opinion on the way that one should live : 

''What do I care for gold an' silver, all the money 

that's in this land? 
Gi' me a wife an' fourteen childer', a old gray hos^ 

an' a peanut stand." 

This takes all modern questions— all the problems 

we discuss — 
And answers them completely; and it should appeal 

to us. 

139 



ISAIAH PERKINS CREED 

You note that Greed and Mammon are out-spokenly 

decried 
And that it deprecates in forceful terms Race Suicide. 

And so, when from the platform or from oracles of 

state 
Philosophy is flung about in words of worth and 

weight, 
And there are rules of life laid down for guiding 

you and me, 
We hum Isaiah Perkins' song — he died in '83: 

"What do I care for gold an' silver, all the money 

that's in this land? 
Gi' me a wife an' fourteen childer', a old gray hoss, 

an' a peanut stand." 



140 



THE DEDICATION 
(Abraham Lincoln Centre, 1905.) 

And what is this you dedicate? Is it the brick and 

stone ? 
These walls set high and fair — do you but build these 

walls alone? 
Is it that you would dedicate this work that you have 

done, 
Or consecrate the structure of great deeds that is 

begun ? 

We may fold hands and look at this, and know that 

it is good, 
And praise the marvels that are wrought of senseless 

stone and wood. 
But we must go bare-armed and strong from labor 

made complete 
To all the harder, longer tasks we know that we must 

meet. 

The perfect house is not made up of roof and wall 

and floor — 
The perfect house bids welcome or cries Godspeed at 

door — 

141 



THE DEDICATION 

Its builders labor on in love, are spendthrift of their 

strength 
Until the house shall stand in simple majesty at 

length. 

It is the house not made with hands, not built of 

stone and steel, 
"Wihose base is the great common thought that all of 

us must feel. 
Whose clear design but follows out the one eternal 

plan 
That they who work in brotherhood must know their 

brother man. 

That they who work in brotherhood, who build with 

word and deed, 
Toil on a structure which outgrows the confines of a 

creed, 
Raise up a temple wonderful beneath the blessed 

skies — 
A temple as enduring as the truth that never dies. 

Build on. Build high and true and fair, throughout 

the changing years, 
And light shall break where darkness broods, and 

smiles take place of tears. 
The blessing of a worthy deed is that its lustre glows 
Like sunbeams coaxing laughter to the dev.drops on 

the rose. 



142 



THE DEDICATION 

So, you have built — but still you buiJd, and not with 

brick and beams, 
For you shall breathe the breath of life into your 

cherished dreams, 
And you shall see your faith take form again, and 

yet again. 
For you build more than temples — Aye, for you are 

building men! 

And what is this we dedicate? Not roof and floor 

and wall. 
But the brave trust in that white light which leads us 

one and all; 
"We consecrate our hope and faith in this that has 

been done 
And dedicate ourselves anew to what is but begun. 



143 



THE MISSISSIPPI 

As a ribbon flung out from a generous hand, 
Till it loops in its leagues the fair heart of the land, 
So the river — The Father of Waters — is flung 
From the place where the pines by the north winds 

are swung. 
From the stillness and peace of the whispering lakes 
To the shore where the sea in its majesty breaks. 

And it murmurs for miles or it leaps in its strength 
Or it coils as a lariat coiled on its length, 
And it stops for a space with its eddying whirls 
While its form spins about as a garland of pearls 
And it sings in the sun and it dreams in the moon 
As it races in joy from the falls to lagoon. 

It has mirrored the banners of crimson and gold 
That were borne by adventurers dauntlessly bold 
Who were winning new realms and were finding new 

ways 
Through the green of the forest and gray of the haze 
That was spread on the prairie and wreathed on the 

hill 
When the courage of Spain was at one with its will. 

144 



THE MISSISSIPPI 

It has laughed with the lightly wrought lilies of 

France 
As the flag kept the time to the lilt of the dance 
When the noblemen came, and the beautiful maids 
Sang the ballads of old in the hush of the glades, 
And it knows of the days that were gentle and calm 
When the lilies of France nodded over the palm. 

It has run with a red— not a red of the dawn, 
But the red flood of war in the days that are gone 
When its bosom was swept by the shot and the shell 
And the smoke of the war was the vapor of hell 
That blew low on its surface and hid hulls and spars 
When the stars and the stripes met the stars and 
the bars. 

But today, as majestic as ages ago. 
From the hills of the north to the valleys below, 
As a ribbon that binds the palmetto and pine, 
As a bond that is set from the gulf to the line- 
As an artery throbbed by the pulse of the land, 
So the river flows on, ever stately and grand. 

And the centuries come and the centuries go. 
But the river— The Father of Waters— shall flow 
As the ointment of old from the ewer was spilled 
On the place where the Lord said the builders should 

build. 
Aye, the great Mississippi, majestic and calm. 
Has endured, shall endure, as a blessing and balm. 

145 



WHO HATH A BOOK 

Who hath a book 

Hath friends at hand, 
And gold and gear 

At his command ; 
And rich estates, 

If he but look. 
Are held by him 

Who hath a book. 

Who hath a book 

May fight, or sing. 
Or ride or rule. 

Or anything. 
And he may dwell 

In humble hut. 
Or palace, ere 

The book be shut. 

Who hath a book 

Hath but to read 
And he may be 

A king, indeed. 
His kingdom is 

His inglenook — 
All this is his 

Who hath a book. 

146 



WHO HATH A BOOK 

Who hath a book 

Should thank the Lord 
Because he may 

A book afford ; 
And in his prayer 

This clause is due: 
**Lord, bless the men 

W!ho write books, too ! ' 



147 



MY FAT FRIEND'S SMILE 

My fat friend's smile! It's a homely phrase, 
But it takes me back to the other days — 
To the other days, when the heart was young 
And its saddest songs were as yet unsung. 

'Twas a cheery smile; I can see it yet, 
With the twinkling mirth I can not forget — 
How it dimpled out till it blent for me 
In a map of the Land of Jollity ! 

You knew when you saw its rippling start 
Prom his laughing eyes, it was full of heart ; 
It was full of heart as a smile could be — 
The sort of smile that is good to see. 

My fat friend 's smile ! Ah, it 's good to know 
That you had such a friend long, long ago ; 
And it brightens many a weary while 
This thought of my fat friend and his smile. 



148 



GOOD FELLOWSHIP 

Ho, brother, it's the handclasp and the good word 

and the smile 
That does the most and helps the most to make the 

world worth while! 
It's all of us together, or it's only you and I— 
A ringing song of friendship, and the heart beats 

high ; 
A ringing song of friendship, and a word or two of 

cheer, 
Then all the world is gladder and the bending sky 

is clear ! 

It's you and I together— and we're brothers one 
and all 

Whenever through good fellowship we hear the subtle 
call. 

Whenever in the ruck of things we feel the helping 
hand 

Or see the deeper glow that none but we may un- 
derstand — 

Then all the world is good to us and all is worth the 
while ; 

Ho, brother, it's the handclasp and the good word and 
the smile! 



149 



THE BIG BRASS BAND 

I want to hear a murmur down the distance of the 
street — 

A mild and mellow murmur with a rythm in its 
beat; 

To hear it growing stronger as the melody comes 
near 

Until I hear the trumpets in the high notes ringing 
clear, 

Until the strains are fashioned in a tune I under- 
stand — 

I want to hear a Big Brass Band. 

I want to see them swinging 'round the corner as 

they come, 
Each foot in perfect cadence with the booming of the 

drum; 
I want to hear the music grow tremendous in its 

surge 
Wihile piccolo and flute and all the brasses grandly 

merge 
Into a storm of harmony that sweeps across the 

land — 
I want to hear a Big Brass Band. 

150 



THE BIG BRASS BAND 

I want to see them passing, while the cymbals clang 

and clash 
To hear the cornet lead them with its silver fire and 

dash, 
To hear the tuba shouting and the trombone echoing 
The French horns and the altos, till the instruments 

all sing 
A glory song, or paean, that is thrilling, great and 

grand — 
I want to hear a Big Brass Band. 

I want to watch them going, with the boys that tag 

behind 
In envy of the drummers and to all the others blind ; 
I want to hear the music dwindle down as on they go, 
Until it is the murmur it began with, soft and low, 
A shadow of the sweetness of the sound, you under- 
stand — 
I want to hear a Big Brass Band. 



151 



GREEN APPLES AND SALT 

I'm hungry today, with a shadowy kind 

Of a hunger for what I will never more find — 

A hunger that hints at a feast of delight, 

But I know if I ate, that it wouldn't taste right, 

That it wouldn't be rich with the tang and the zest 

That it had in the days when it tasted the best. 

For in fact or in fancy I know I 'd find fault — 

Yet I'm hungry today for green apples and salt. 

If I only had freckles, and snarls in my hair, 
And one front tooth missing, and both my feet bare. 
And just one suspender, and pants that were torn, 
And a hickory hat that was tattered and worn, 
And a collarless shirt that was ripped in the sleeves, 
Then I'd find all the joy that each urchin receives 
When the orchard fence he will go o'er with a vault 
And be ready to feast on green apples and salt. 

Green apples ! The puckery crab had a snap 
And an acidy nip that was good for a chap, 
But the old harvest apple — it's at its best now 
When between green and ripe it swings low from the 

bough 
And teases and coaxes and dares you to eat ! 

152 



GREEN APPLES AND SALT 

The green harvest apple is one you can 't beat ; 

There isn't a boy that it cannot make halt 

If he likes — and who doesn 't ? — green apples and salt. 

And I 'm hungry today with a ghost of desire, 
With a shadowy craving that seems to inquire 
If I'm losing my hold on the best that I knew, 
On the fun of my boydays, and appetite, too ! 
And I want to be out in the world of the trees, 
In the world of the boys and the birds and the bees — 
But I know that my fancy would find me at fault 
Though I 'm hungry today for green apples and salt. 



153 



THE OLD MOTTO 

We found it in the attic where it long had lain away ; 
The dust had veiled the letters in a shroud of misty 

gray, 
A spider 's web was tangled in its odd fantastic weaves 
Across the frame whose corners were hand carved in 

oaken leaves. 
The old, discarded motto — it was worked in green and 

red 
On perforated cardboard, and "God Bless Our 

Home ' ' it said. 

Crude, homely, and old-fashioned is this relic of the 
past ; 

Once thought a thing of beauty but now flung aside 
at last — 

Yet now the faded colors that the quaint old letters 
bear 

Seem as the afterglowing of the quiet days that were — 

The days whose every twilight from frettings brought 
release. 

And stars swept through the silence that held a Sab- 
bath peace. 

Again the gate chain rattles, and again our eyes be- 
hold 

154 



THE OLD MOTTO 

The little path that found its way through phlox 

and marigold, 
The broad steps and the doorway through which we 

looked to see 
The face of one whose gentle smile was meant for you 

and me; 
And then the dim old parlor that opened from the 

hall 
And had the worsted motto swung in honor on the 

wall. 

' ' God Bless Our Home ' ' — And loving hands reach out 

from all the years, 
The hands that always reached to help, that wiped 

away our tears; 
And now we know full well that when this motto held 

its place 
They meant the faded prayer that today we slowly 

trace ; 
That every morn of work to do, that every night of 

rest. 
The good old home was by some mystic benediction 

blest. 



155 



WANDERLUST AND HEIMWEH 

My feet they have the wanderlust — 

They fain would lead me on 
Adown the gray road soft with dust 

Through eventide and dawn 
To where there lift the distant hills, 

A-many ways to roam. 
My heart with one deep cadence thrills; 

A whispered song of home. 

My feet would set themselves to go 

Still on and up and down, 
To seek the pathways to and fro 

Through country and through town, 
To find the sunshine here, and there 

The shade of city walls — 
But softly on the pulsing air 

The home place ever calls. 

0, fair the path! And fair and far 

The countries I would see, 
And morning glow and evening star 

Show forth the path to me. 
My eyes look on, my lips are mute. 

But be it night or noon 



156 



WANDERLUST AND HEIMWEH 

There comes to me, irresolute 
The homesong in a croon. 

The wanderlust it lures my feet 

To where the pathways part, 
But now there flames with sudden heat 

The heimweh in my heart. 
And so farewell to reaching trail 

And flashing wind-flung foam 
My heart but heeds the stronger hail — 

The backward path, and home. 



157 



OLD GLORY'S DAY 

A day for Old Glory — a day for the drums 

To rumble and roll as the old banner comes 

Triumphantly glowing atop of the mast 

And rich with the splendor it holds of the past, 

The glory of old — of the days that are gone — 

And redder and bluer with tints of the dawn, 

And silvery white as the foam of the sea 

With the promise that comes from the days yet to be ! 

The red glowing redder, the stars glowing brighter. 
The blue growing bluer and truer alway ; 
The red growing redder, the white growing whiter — 
The grace of Old Glory, the flag of today. 

A day for Old Glory — a day for a song. 

For a melody sweet and a chant full and strong. 

For a paean of faith and an ode of our trust 

As the flag sways in time with each eddying gust 

That will send it in ripples all bravely and high 

Till it glows as a beacon light set in the sky, 

Till it flashes and flames in the heart of the blue 

With the surge of the song made for me and for you. 

The red growing redder, and stars glowing brighter. 
The blue growing deeper and stronger alway; 

158 



OLD GLORY S DAY 

The red growing redder, the white flashing whiter — 
The truth of Old Glory, the one flag today. 

A day for Old Glory — and page upon page 

We may read all the story of glorious age, 

We may hear in the rustling of its sweeping folds 

The wonderful promise it held and still holds. 

The faith that makes strong and the hope that makes 

true — 
The strength of the red and the white and the blue — 
We may hear it, and know it, and feel it, and see 
All the pride of the past and the glory to be. 

The red growing redder, the blue growing bluer. 
The stars flashing clearer and dearer alway. 
And the red and the white and the blue all the traer — 
The glow of Old Glory, the flag of today ! 



159 



THE ARMY OF THE SHADOWS 

I hear no shouts as the soldiers come 
To the mellow throl) of the distant drum. 

They come — A fragrant of what they were ; 

The ranks are scattering year by year, 
For one by one with his olden air 

Has answered the summons of Death with ' ' Here ! 
I see them waver and falter on, 

Their blue grown shadowy gray with dust — 
Grown shadowy gray, as in years agone 

Their sabers fell into shadowy rust. 

O, this the vision that comes to me; 

I watch them trudging adown the street, 
The ready soldiers that used to be. 

With vibrant drumming to time their feet ; 
I see them swinging along the way 

With brave Old Glory above them all ; 
And all the lines are complete today — 

Made so by the mystical trumpet call. 

And quick and eager, erect and bold, 

They march triumphantly through my dream — 

The soldier men of the days of old 

With flags ablow and with swords agleam. 

The cannons rumble their warring note, 

160 



>> 



THE ARMY OF THE SHADOWS 

The muskets blaze on the battle's marge, 
And out of the bugle's brazen throat 

There shrills the terrible cry of ' ' Charge ! ' ' 

But hold. The mist that was in my eyes 

Now drifts away as a cloud is blown, 
And the shadows fade, as across the skies 

The silent arm of the wind is thrown. 
And gray, and grizzled, and halt, and lame. 

They falter on to the rounded graves 
That glow today in the grace of fame 

Beneath the banner that honor waves. 

They go — A shadow of what they were; 

The ranks are vanishing year by year, 
For one by one with his gallant air 

Has answered the summons of Death with ^'Here! 
And so they waver and falter on. 

Their blue made shadowy gray with dust — 
The fading host that in years agone 

Bore forth the grail of the nation's trust. 

And into the shadows march Phey all 
To the sigh of a far-off trumpet call. 



161 



THE MIGHTY NATIONS 

We are a mighty nation; 

Many our gates, and wide; 
Strong in our gleaming armor ; 

Masters of wind and tide — 
Great with a lasting greatness, 

Proud with a nation's pride. 
***** 

Aye, in the dim, dead ages. 
Men would enroll the deeds, 

Tell of the mighty Persians, 
Sing of the wondrous Medes — 

Yet they are fallen columns; 
Now they are broken reeds. 

Once there were proud Egyptians 

Telling in brazen tones 
How they were great and forceful- 

Yet now the night wind moans 
Over their shriveled mummies 

Hid in the crumbling stones. 

Rome, in the days of Caesars, 

Battled on land and sea ; 
Many a kingly vassal 

162 



THE MIGHTY NATIONS 

Begged but to bend the knee. 
Statesman, and sage, and soldier — 
Where are they now, these three? 

Tarshish and Tyre and Sidon, 

Babylon, Athens — all 
Bloomed in the dim, dead ages, 

Withered, and met their fall ; 
Tasted the sweets of power — 

Left scarce a shattered wall. 

Out of the dust of ages, 

Let all the nations rise! 
Peoples have held them wondrous, 

Mighty and strong and wise — 

Now they are dead and silent 

Under the brooding skies. 
***** 

We are a mighty nation; 

Many our gates, and wide; 
Masters of time and fortune; 

Strong in a nation's pride — 
So were the ones before us ; 

So were the ones that died. 



163 



THE NE'ER DO WELL 

He was gentle and kind ; he would plan half the day 
For an unlooked-for act that would please you some 

way; 
He would sit up all night with a friend who was ill, 
And to do you a favor would work with a will — 
But he never amounted to much. 

There was something about him that got to your 

heart ; 
It was plain that he never was playing a part, 
But that all that he did he was doing for you 
And that he was a friend who was lasting and true — 
But he never amounted to much. 

All the boys he grew up with went rising to fame; 
There were some who made money, and all made a 

name ; 
Art and music and letters, the law or finance, 
Every one of the rest made the most of his chance — 
But he never amounted to much. 

Why, there wasn't a child but would come to his arms. 
For of jingles and stories he knew all the charms; 
Yes, and even the dogs in the street used to leap 
At his hand with a bark that was laughingly deep — 
But he never amounted to much. 
164 



m^^-^ 




*^Why, there wasn't a child but would come to his 
arms, 

For of jingles and stories >he knew all the charms" 

The Ne'er-Do- Well. 



THE NE ER DO WELL 

And nobody could tell why he had such a hold 
On the rich and the poor, and the young and the old ; 
He was always on hand for some kind little deed, 
He instinctively knew when a friend was in need — 
But he never amounted to much. 

They have folded his hands, they have laid him to 
rest — 

And the church couldn't hold all the friends he pos- 
sessed ; 

And fair memories mingled their smiles with the tears 

Of the ones who recalled the good deeds of his years — 
But he never amounted to much. 



165 



"REST AT EASE '^ 

''And these stones shall le for a memoriaV — The Book 
of Joshua iv., 7. 

Rank on rank the white stones stand 

In the valley, on the hill; 
Pile on file across the land 

By the river and the rill; 
Line on line in long platoons 

Wihere the whisper of the breeze 
Like a far off trumpet, croons: 
"Rest at ease." 

Rank on rank, as in review, 

Regiment on regiment, 
With the red and white and blue 

Over all, and softly blent 
With the sunset in the sky. 

Faintly, faintly through the trees 
Come the requiems that sigh : 
"Rest at ease." 

Rank on rank they slumber here 
Recking naught of olden foes; 

Day by day new stones appear 
As the silent army grows. 
166 



REST AT EASE 

Company by company 

Of the nation's great are these, 
Hearing not the melody: 
"Rest at ease." 

Where the roses and the vines 
Quiver in the dawning 's breath, 

Silently they hold the lines 

In the wondrous hush of death; 

And the singing of the birds 
And the humming of the bees 

Merge into the murmured words: 
"Rest at ease." 

Rank on rank the white stones gleam, 

Regiment and regiment 
Where the army lies adream, 

Stately and magnificent, 
And the mellow bugle blows 

In the tenderest of keys 
While the silent army grows: 
"Rest at ease." 



167 



"THAT SHALL ABIDE " 

"Then I commended mirth, because a man hath no better 
thing under the sun than to eat and to drink and to he 
merry ; for that shall abide with him of his labor the days 
of his life, which God giveth hiyn under the sun.'' — Eccles- 
iastes viii., 15. 

Come, talk no more of troubles! 

In silence let them end; 
In speech each bother doubles, 

Neglected, it will mend. 
Forget the days depressing — 

There have been sunny skies 
That brought to us the blessing 

Of laughing lips and eyes. 

We hug our griefs too tightly, 

We count them overmuch, 
When hourly, daily, nightly, 

Joy lingers for our touch. 
We are too prone to borrow. 

We are too prone to lend 
The sorrow of tomorrow. 

What gladness it may send ! 

We seek too much for sadness 
We dream too much of gloom — 
168 



THAT SHALL ABIDE 

Our hearts bar out the gladness 
That begs of us for room. 

In fearing and in fretting 
We waste the precious whiles, 

Forsaking and forgetting 
The treasure trove of smiles. 

The snow laughs in its falling, 

The rain laughs with the grass, 
The breezes all are calling 

A joy song as they pass ; 
When wintry days are over 

The rose laughs into bloom 
The chuckle of the clover 

Comes drenched with its perfume. 

Have done with mete and measure 

That tell of saddened whiles ; 
Count up our richest treasure — 

The lasting gold of smiles ! 
Let us link hands with laughter — 

Grief loiters overlong ; 
We shall find our hereafter 

Built up of smile and song. 



169 



THE CONQUERORS 

''Yet the defenced city shall be desolate, and the haUtOr 
tion forsaken, and left like a wilderness.'' — The Prophecy 
of Isaiah, xxvii., 10. 

The city it cried to the grass and trees: 

' ' Room for me, room ! ' ' and they gave it space, 
For cities stop not for a one of these 

Where wall upon wall must grow into place. 
The trees and the grass crept away, away 

To the farthermost wall and the outmost gate, 
And there they stand patiently day by day. 

For well do they know they need but to wait. 

They need but to wait; for the trees they know 

Of the cities of old, how they grew and grew, 
How they covered the plain in the long ago — 

And the trees they will whisper a tale o'ertrue 
Of the cities that drove them with arms outflung 

Till they hid in their fear on the farther hills 
And harked to the threatening songs then sung 

By the clattering streets and the roaring mills. 

The grass it will tell how it shrank and fled 

From iron and steel and from brick and stone, 
But waited afar till the city, dead, 

170 



THE CONQUERORS 

Gave leave that the grass might regain its own ; 
And the grass, as it rustles beneath the wind, 

The trees as they whisper with airy breath 
Tell legends of ages that came to find 

The ruins that told of a city's death. 

The city it says to the trees and grass: 

''Make way for me, way!" and they bow and go. 
But listen to them when some day you pass 

And hark to the words they are whispering low. 
How calmly they bide in their agelong wait 

And murmur of cities and lands and men — 
They stand at the outermost wall and gate 

Until they shall come to their own again. 



171 



THE CURSE OF JOTHAM 

''And upon them came the curse of Jotham the son of 
Jeruh'baai:' — The Book of Judges ix., 21. 

And thus have you lied, and so have you lied, 

And thus have you wrought me wrong — 
And I curse you now by the truth denied 

That shall cut like a hissing thong ; 
By the hope you crushed, by the faith you broke, 

By the grief that you rendered worse, 
It shall drift in your eyes in the altar smoke 

Till you cower beneath my curse. 

I have dreamed of this in the darkened days 

And brooded in wrath at night, 
I have fought with your lies in the gloomy ways 

When wrestling to gain my right; 
With a curse that is keen as a serpent's tooth 

I swear you shall bend to me — 
As deathless and great as the sleepless truth 

This curse that I make shall be. 

Though a man go down to the house of death 

Revenge is a living thing 
That will pulse its way as an outblown breath 

Where the stars in their courses swing, 
172 



THE CURSE OP JOTHAM 

That will follow far past the dying suns 

Through the orbits devised of old 
Till it reach the place of the faithless ones 

Where the planets have long grown cold. 

And thus have you lied, and so have you lied — 

My spirit can bide and wait 
With the faith you broke and the truth denied 

Till it find you before the gate, 
And there in the glow of a light sublime 

In a vast eternal place 
I shall tear all the truth from the page of time 

And shall fling it against your face. 



173 



''LOOK AT THE STARS " 

'7 have showed thee neiv things from this time, even 
hidden things, and thou didst not know them." — Isaiah 
xlviii., 6. 

"Look at the stars" . . . 
I look and see 

The same familiar face of night, 
As common as all things that be 

Spread constantly before the sight. 
And then I earthward turn my eyes 

With mocking smiles for those who fret 
The simple people and the wise 

With blinking stars that rise and set. 

' ' Look at the stars "... 
Again I gaze 

And mark the stateliness outspread 
Until it seems that marvel ways 

Are slowly opened overhead, 
Until in fancy I may trace 

The regal progress of each star 
Upon some great highroad of space 

That leads forever wide and far. 
174 



LOOK AT THE STARS 

' ' Look at the stars "... 
There, where a world 

In the illimitable deep, 
Its draperies of darkness furled, 

Waits to be summoned from its sleep ; 
There where the stillness takes on form. 

Where very nothingness is filled 
With worlds that circle, swarm on swarm; 

Where the eternal builders build ! 

''Look at the stars" . . . 
Now to my ken 

Comes that which makes me understand 
The soulspeech of those ancient men : 

''Within the hollow of his hand." 
The full tides of the centuries. 

By billows of creation tossed. 
Chant the primeval melodies 

That in the hush of years are lost. 

' ' Look at the stars "... 
Sun shouts to sun ; 

I hear deep calling unto deep ; 
Dead worlds and planets but begin 

Keep pace with the unending sweep. 
It is no common, starflecked sky — 

It is a page of some great book 
Writ as the ages journey by. 

My eyes are closed. I dare not look. 



175 



WHEN A GOOD MAN DIES 

"A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's 
children.'' — Proverbs xiii., 22. 

Somehow, when a good man dies, 

"When he folds his hands in rest, 
We look in in dumb surprise 

At the ending of his quest. 
We go forth in mute amaze 

From the chamber hushed and dim, 
Walking his accustomed ways. 

Feeling still we are with him. 

Now we mark the words he said. 

We recount his golden deeds. 
Name the times that he has led — 

Feel that some way still he leads. 
Though we see that dreamless sleep 

Which comes softly, on a breath 
Wafted from the wings that keep 

All the mystery of death. 

We know this : that he has gone 

Out upon the hidden way 
Which leads through the silver dawn 

Of the far, eternal day, 
176 



WHEN A GOOD MAN DIES 

Yet there lingers now the touch 
Of his strongly helpful hand 

Which we clung to overmuch — 
And we blindly understand. 

^Vlhen a good man dies, we see 

As though standing face to face 
What he dared and hoped to be. 

Aye, from some eternal place 
Comes full knowledge; and we know 

All the word that he would give ; 
That his quest is won, and so 

In his work he still must live. 

Then the inner truth we grasp. 
And each of us understands 

What great peace is his to clasp 
In his quiet, folded hands. 



177 



THE GOOD WORD 

"7/ there he any virtue, and if there he any praise."- 
The Epistle to the Philippians, iv., 8. 

He has his faults ; aye, faults that glare, 

And weaknesses that work him ill — 
But well he knows the faults are there 

To test his store of strength and will. 
But hidden in his heart of hearts 

Or maybe shining forth alone 
Is his good trait. The censure smarts 

And sears till he is overthrown. 
Speak the good word. 

Forsooth, because he is your friend 

You may not claim the right to chide. 
To flout and damn world without end 

That foibles that he fain would hide. 
There must be something in the man 

To echo to the words that lift — 
If you may find no wiser plan 

Then let the derelict go drift. 
Speak the good word. 

The pity is that when one peers 
At minor faults with critic's eyes, 
178 



THE GOOD WORD 

He blends his judgment with his jeers 

And oft his vision magnifies. 
There is some good. But look as well 

For it as you do for the bad 
And praise it ! Thus you work a spell 

That no deep mystic ever had. 
Speak the good word. 

Speak the good word — the word that gives 

The newer impulse and the hope; 
The word that helps, and grows, and lives — 

A light to them that blindly grope 
Through all the darkness of despair. 

They know their faults, and know them well; 
Of censurings they have their share — 

The kind words are the ones that tell. 
Speak the good word. 



179 



THE RED SEA 

"And the children of Israel went into the midst of the 
sea upon the dry ground; and the waters were a wall unto 
them on their right hand, and on their left.'" — Exodus 

xiv., 22. 

Before, the sea whose waves tossed high 
Their gleaming lances to the sky, 
That bent to bar the further sight; 
Behind, the foe on plain and height, 
With sword and banner flashing free, 
As did the white spray of the sea. 

Then murmurings of dire complaint 

From those whose sonls and hearts were faint 

And bitter speech from those who eyed 

By turns the hemming troop and tide. 

Yet one thought never of retreat, 

But to the sea he turned his feet. 

Out, out, far out across the tide 
A path was flung, full, fair and wide, 
With wondrous walls that surged and rolled 
Upon themselves, the way to hold — 
And faint hearts with new gladness thrilled; 
The foe's triumphant shout was stilled. 
180 



THE RED SEA 

Through all the battlings of the years 
Men have faced seas of doubts and fears, 
While down the way that they had won 
The foe, relentless, followed on — 
And some, while yet the promise pealed. 
Have weakly bent the knee, to yield. 

But some thefe are — great souls and brave- 
Who have gone breasting storm and wave. 
And who have crossed the sea dryshod 
On paths no other feet have trod. 
Aye, blind is he who will not say 
Red Seas are being cleft today! 



181 



A HYMN OF THANKSGIVING 

♦ * Out of his treasuries.'' — Psalms cxxxv., 7. 

Thou who art Lord of the wind and rain, 

Lord of the east and western skies 
And of the hilltop and the plain 

And of the stars that sink and rise, 
Keeper of Time's great mysteries 

That are but blindly understood — 
Give us to know that all of these 

Labor together for our good. 

Thou who must laugh at bounding line 

Setting the little lands apart; 
Thou who has given corn and wine, 

Give to us each a thankful heart. 
Show us the worth of wounds and scars, 

Show us the grace that grows of grief, 
Thou who hast flung the racing stars, 

Thou who hast loosed the falling leaf. 

Count us the treasures that we hold — 
Wonderful peace of the wintry lands, 

All of the summer's beaten gold 

Poured in our eager, outheld hands; 

Open the book of the rounded year 
182 




'Thou who art Lord of the wind and rain, 
Lord of the east and western skiesr 

— A Hymn of Thanksgiving. 



A HYMN OF THANKSGIVING 

Paged with our pleasures and our pains- 
Show us the writings where appear 
Losses o'erbalanced by the gains. 

Thou who art Lord of the sea and shore, 

Lord of the gates of Day and Night — 
This have we had of thy great store : 

Laughter and love, and life and light, 
Sorrow and sweetness, smile and song — 

Blessings that blend in all of these — 
Have them, and hold them overlong. 

Out of thy wondrous treasuries. 



183 



TRUTH 

'Pilate saith unto him: 'What is truth r " — John, xviii, 



38. 



This is truth : this that_was made 
When the stars' long paths were laid, 
When eternity was planned, 
When the stars came from the hand 
That alone could mark and place 
Each in its appointed space. 

This is truth : the changeless sea 
Wihere uncounted wonders be 
And the sure, resistless tide 
With its impulse half -world wide ; 
Tide that sways by east and west 
With the world's ships on its breast. 

This is truth: the hill and plain, 
And the sunshine, and the rain: 
And the shrub that simply knows 
It must blossom with the rose ; 
And the tree that gives its share 
In the fruit that it must bear. 



184 



TRUTH 

Truth? We fools think it must hide 
Some place else than tree or tide, 
Some place farther than the stars — 
Some place bound by mystic bars 
Fettered by unyielding bands 
Which defy our clumsy hands. 

This is truth: this that was sung 
When the stars' first song was flung 
Out across the centuries; 
This: the hills and plains and seas — 
All the common things we scan 
That are still untouched by man. 



185 



THE SLAIN 

''Thou that art full of stirs, a tumultuous city, a joyous 
city; thy slain men are not slain with the sword nor dead 
in battle.'' — Isaiah xxii., 2. 

They wander through the streets — the slain, 

The living dead, whose weary eyes 
Tell that they have a brother Cain 

Who slew them surely, brotherwise. 
Their brother Cain, perchance he laughed, 

Perchance he frowned, or coldly lied — 
But some way with his subtle craft. 

He slew the part of them called pride. 

And some are people of the day, 

And some are people of the night, 
Yet in their eyes there is no ray 

Flung from the soul in living light. 
No luster echoing a smile ; 

Already they have joined the dust — 
Some brother Cain, with gentle guile 

Has killed for them their hope and trust. 

And there be some who daily see 

The shadow of their shattered faith. 
Who from that shade are never free — 

186 



THE SLAIN 

Those haunted by their honor's wraith, 
Aye, men and women these — the dead. 

The dead that have not wholly died 
But who have sepulchered instead 

Their once great hope and trust and pride. 

Soul-slain, beleaguered and foredoomed. 

They count the dice that fate has cast 
And dream, while dead but unentombed. 

Of what they would forget — the past. 
By unrelenting fortune led 

They wandered through the streets — the slain. 
But who may know the living dead? 

And who may know the brother Cain ? 



187 



THE BALANCE 

"As with the buyer, so with the seller.'' — Isaiah xxiv., 2. 

Now some buy not in the market place and some sell 

not in the stalls, 
And some have ware that they hawk abroad, though 

not with a vendor's calls. 
And some find profit in doubt and fear and some in 

barter and trade — 
Yet whether we buy or whether we sell we boast of 

what we have made. 

And one plays knave with the blinded faith another 

has put in his hands, 
And many an Ahab basks today in the peace of a Na- 

both 's lands ; 
And many there are with goods to sell and many there 

are that buy — 
But always a truth must buy a truth and always a lie 

a lie. 

But whether you buy or whether you sell the ways of 

guile are vain 
For the balanced Book of the Deeds of Men shows 
neither loss nor gain. 

188 



THE BALANCE 

Now some buy stuff of a tinseled weave and call it the 

robe of fame ; 
And some pay dear for a hollow sound and call it an 

honored name; 
And some go far in a weary search to purchase a 

fabled gem, 
But find it not till they wander home — and there it 

has been for them. 

But each one sees what his brother does, and knows 

where his brother's feet 
Go faring far on the winding path through the valley 

of deceit, 
But each one thinks that his brothers look at himself 

with a trusting eye — 
When only a truth will buy a truth and only a lie a 

lie. 

For whether you buy or whether you sell, or bide by 

the gamester's toss, 
The balanced Book of the Deeds of Men shows neither 

gain nor loss. 



189 



SORROW 

"And ye shall "be sorrowful, dut your sorroio shall he 
changed into joy.'' — The Gospel according to 8t. John, 
xvi., 20. 

I drove Sorrow out one day — 

This was long, and long ago — 
Fiercely thrust her far away; 

Her I would no longer know. 
I called Pleasure to my side, 

Trolling forth a jolly song. 
"Well done!" Pleasure gayly cried, 

"Gray garbed grief was ever wrong." 

Feast, and jest, and song, and wine, 

Laughing shout, and ringing toast 
Pleasure had of me and mine — 

He the guest and I the host; 
Till the years had gone their gait 

And I halted, old and tired, 
Wondering by dawn and late 

What it was that 1 desired. 

Then the candles guttered down 

And the sun came streaming in; 
I saw Pleasure's tawdry crown 

190 



SORROW 

And the wrinkles of his grin; 
I saw Pleasure's lying eyes— 

This I saw; all this and more — 
And I thrust him varletwise 

From my house ,and closed the door. 

Then I sat, and sat alone 

Marveling upon the end, 
Hungering for touch or tone 

From an one who was my friend; 
There I sat — and from the road 

Eang a laugh that gave me word 
Pleasure had a new abode; 

'Twas his hollow laugh I heard. 

There came one full silently, 

Calm of face and sweet of eyes, 
Came and stood and gazed on me 

While I looked up with surprise. 
** Stranger," begged I, ''linger here 

For your heart alone is true." 
"I have waited year on year," 

Smiled the Sorrow I once knew. 



191 



AS A FOOL DIETH 

''Thy hands were not l)ound, nor thy feet put into fet- 
ters:' — The Second Book of Samuel, Mi., 33. 

Do you remember the day you died? 
Do not look at me wondering-eyed, 
But answer truly and answer fair — 
How and when was your soul stripped bare ? 
Pride, or cunning, or greed, or pelf — 
Which of these was it slew yourself ? 

Truly, you walk as you used to walk, 
Laugh, and listen, and smile, and talk. 
Sell and barter — but do you live? 
Who knows harm he cannot forgive? 
Who knows all that you fain would hide — 
All that happened the day you died ? 

What was the thing that can ever keep 
From your eyelids the balm of sleep? 
What the weakness that gave release 
To dull guilt- whispers that will not cease? 
What left longings in dark for light. 
What left prayings in day for night ? 

192 



AS A FOOL DIETH 

Do yon remember the day you died? 
What far place — 1 Ah, the world is wide. 
Yet the pulses of thought are swift 
And the curtains that hide will lift 
Till the truth that you fear they show. 
None may see it ; but you — you know ! 



103 



^^ CHUMS'' 

"Then Jonathan and David made a covenant." — I. Sam- 
uel, xviii., 1. 

Chum of mine of long ago, 

I would reach across the years 
To the days we used to know, 

To the laughter and the tears ; 
Fain would find the songs we knew — 

Brave old songs they were, in truth, 
Songs that cheered for me and you 

All the golden paths of youth. 

I would journey back again 

To the parting of the ways. 
Journey from this world of men 

To the wondrous other days ; 
I would find the meadow lands 

Odorous of mint and musk. 
Find the fields where shadow hands 

Trailed the draperies of dusk. 

Chum of mine that used to be — 
Ho, the world is long and wide ; 

You have fared by land and sea, 
Stout of heart and eager eyed! 

194 



CHUMS 

I have footed here and there, 
But in alien lands there come 

Murmurs from the days all fair 

When we hailed each other: "Chum. 

Time has lined your face and mine, 

Age has made your hair snow white- 
Yet each wrinkle and each line 

Fades out in the gentle light 
Of the memories we hold 

Of the days when field and tree 
And the meadow lands outrolled 

Were the world for you and me. 

Chum of mine ! I blindly reach 

Till again I touch your hand — 
Thoughts we cannot put in speech 

Come to us. We understand. 
Chum of mine ! I fill the cup 

To the past of you and me — 
Pledge it, ere we drink it up : 

To the days that used to be ! 



195 



A GOOD NIGHT 

''He giveth his helovecl sleep." — Psalm cxxvii., 2. 

' ' Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ' ' — 
The stars drift slowly down into the west, 
The drowsing breeze sighs' faintly on the hill ; 
Save for its song the wide, wide world is still. 

Night has one cure for Day's one thousand cares, 
One healing balm within her clasp she bears— 
The blessed sleep that makes our frowns grow smooth, 
The blessed sleep, to comfort and to soothe. 

The battles of the day have left their scars ; 
There is no warfare now; the marching stars 
Wheel patiently and surely from the east 
And all Day's trumpet challenges have ceased. 

From the illimitable depths of night 

There breathes a lullaby no pen can write, 

A melody that lives through ages long — 

The half-hushed, mystic, wistful slumber song. 

There are no wounds that ache, no stings that smart 
Once sleep has flung her spell about the heart. 
Forget the weary road, the endless quest — 
"Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast." 

196 



AFTERWARD 

"Have the gates of death heen opened unto theef or 
Tiast thou seen the doors of the shadoio of death?'' — Job, 
xxxviii., 17. 

Just to lie down and rest; 

To fold the hands? 
To toil no more ; nor quest 

Through alien lands? 
To strive no more; nor gaze 

At Hope 's far gleam ? 
To know no clashing days, 

Nor even dream? 

Can it be so? That we 

Shall drone and drift 
Down some eternal sea, 

Shall never lift 
Horizons new and strange? 

Shall find no dawn 
Whose constant sense of change 

Shall lure us on ? 

No profit of the years 

In toiling spent ; 
Nor foolish faiths, nor fears — 
197 



AFTERWARD 

But dull content ? 
No place with them that build ? 

No task to do ? 
Our hearts forever stilled ; 

No plannings new ? 

Or, haply, does the night 

That blurs and bars 
Hide all the paths of light 

That thread the stars. 
Conceal from our poor eyes. 

The worlds that wait 
Till we come pilgrimwise 

With souls elate? 

Just to lie down and rest — 

And that is all? 
Or, better still, and best. 

To hear a call 
Which none but souls set free 

May understand: 
''The greatest tasks that be 

Await thy hand!" 



198 



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